SANTA     CRUZ 


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Donated  By: 

JOHN  L.  HALVERSON 
Fellow  of  Adlai  E.  Stevenson  Colfej 

and 

Professor  of  English  Literatui 
1966-1997 

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SANTA     CRUZ 


YOUTH  AND  THE 
BRIGHT  MEDUSA 


BOOKS  BY 
WILL  A  GATHER 

ALEXANDER'S  BRIDGE 
o  PIONEERS! 

THE  SONG  OF  THE   LARK 

MY   ANTONIA 

YOUTH   AND  THE  BRIGHT  MEDUSA 


YOUTH 
AND  THE  BRIGHT  MEDUSA 

BY 

WILLA  GATHER 


"We  must  not  look  at  Qoblin  men, 
We  must  not  buy  their  fruits; 
Who  knows  upon  what  soil  they  fed 
Their  hungry,  thirsty  roots?" 

Qoblin  Market 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED-A'KNOPF 

MCMXX 


BOOKS  BY 
WILL  A  GATHER 

ALEXANDER'S  BRIDGE 
o  PIONEERS! 

THE  SONG  OF  THE   LARK 

MY   ANTONIA 

YOUTH   AND  THE  BRIGHT  MEDUSA 


YOUTH 
AND  THE  BRIGHT  MEDUSA 

BY 

WILLA  GATHER 


"We  must  not  look  at  Qoblin  men, 
We  must  not  buy  their  fruits; 
Who  knows  upon  what  soil  they  fed 
Their  hungry,  thirsty  roots?" 

Qoblin  Market 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED -A- KNOPF 

MCMXX 


Univ.  Library,  UC  Santa  Cruz  t997 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
WILLA  GATHER 


PRINTED   IN   THK   UNITED    STATES   OT   AMERICA 


f* 

•3SIA 


CONTENTS 

COMING,  APHRODITE!  n 

THE  DIAMOND  MINE  79 

A  GOLD  SLIPPER  140 

SCANDAL  169 

PAUL'S  CASE  199 

A  WAGNER  MATINEE  235 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  FUNERAL  248 

"  A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT  "  273 


The  author  wishes  to  thank  McClure's  Maga- 
zine, The  Century  Magazine  and  Harper's  Maga- 
zine for  their  courtesy  in  permitting  the  re-publi- 
cation of  three  stories  in  this  collection. 

The  last  four  stories  in  the  volume,  Paul's  Case, 
A  Wagner  Matinee,  The  Sculptor's  Funeral,  "  A 
Death  in  the  Desert,"  are  re-printed  from  the 
author's  first  book  of  stories,  entitled  "  The  Troll 
Garden,"  published  in  1905. 


YOUTH  AND  THE 
BRIGHT  MEDUSA 


Coming,    Aphrodite ! 
i 

DON  HEDGER  had  lived  for  four  years 
on  the  top  floor  of  an  old  house  on  the 
south  side  of  Washington  Square,  and 
nobody  had  ever  disturbed  him.  He  occupied  one 
big  room  with  no  outside  exposure  except  on  the 
north,  where  he  had  built  in  a  many-paned  studio 
window  that  looked  upon  a  court  and  upon  the 
roofs  and  walls  of  other  buildings.  His  room 
was  very  cheerless,  since  he  never  got  a  ray  of 
direct  sunlight;  the  south  corners  were  always  in 
shadow.  In  one  of  the  corners  was  a  clothes 
closet,  built  against  the  partition,  in  another  a  wide 
divan,  serving  as  a  seat  by  day  and  a  bed  by  night. 
In  the  front  corner,  the  one  farther  from  the 
window,  was  a  sink,  and  a  table  with  two  gas 
burners  where  he  sometimes  cooked  his  food. 
There,  too,  in  the  perpetual  dusk,  was  the  dog's 
bed,  and  often  a  bone  or  two  for  his  comfort. 

The  dog  was  a  Boston  bull  terrier,  and  Hedger 
explained  his  surly  disposition  by  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  bred  to  the  point  where  it  told  on  his 
nerves.  His  name  was  Caesar  III,  and  he  had 
taken  prizes  at  very  exclusive  dog  shows.  When 
— ii — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

he  and  his  master  went  out  to  prowl  about  Uni- 
versity Place  or  to  promenade  along  West  Street, 
Caesar  III  was  invariably  fresh  and  shining.  His 
pink  skin  showed  through  his  mottled  coat,  which 
glistened  as  if  it  had  just  been  rubbed  with  olive 
oil,  and  he  wore  a  brass-studded  collar,  bought  at 
the  smartest  saddler's.  Hedger,  as  often  as  not, 
was  hunched  up  in  an  old  striped  blanket  coat, 
with  a  shapeless  felt  hat  pulled  over  his  bushy  hair, 
wearing  black  shoes  that  had  become  grey,  or 
brown  ones  that  had  become  black,  and  he  never 
put  on  gloves  unless  the  day  was  biting  cold. 

Early  in  May,  Hedger  learned  that  he  was  to 
have  a  new  neighbour  in  the  rear  apartment  — 
two  rooms,  one  large  and  one  small,  that  faced  the 
west.  His  studio  was  shut  off  from  the  larger  of 
these  rooms  by  double  doors,  which,  though  they 
were  fairly  tight,  left  him  a  good  deal  at  the  mercy 
of  the  occupant.  The  rooms  had  been  leased, 
long  before  he  came  there,  by  a  trained  nurse  who 
considered  herself  knowing  in  old  furniture.  She 
went  to  auction  sales  and  bought  up  mahogany 
and  dirty  brass  and  stored  it  away  here,  where  she 
meant  to  live  when  she  retired  from  nursing. 
Meanwhile,  she  sub-let  her  rooms,  with  their  pre- 
cious furniture,  to  young  people  who  came  to  New 
York  to  "  write  "  or  to  "  paint  " —  who  proposed 
to  live  by  the  sweat  of  the  brow  rather  than  of  the 
hand,  and  who  desired  artistic  surroundings. 
—  12  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


When  Hedger  first  moved  in,  these  rooms  were 
occupied  by  a  young  man  who  tried  to  write  plays, 
—  and  who  kept  on  trying  until  a  week  ago,  when 
the  nurse  had  put  him  out  for  unpaid  rent. 

A  few  days  after  the  playwright  left,  Hedger 
heard  an  ominous  murmur  of  voices  through  the 
bolted  double  doors :  the  lady-like  intonation  of  the 
nurse  —  doubtless  exhibiting  her  treasures  —  and 
another  voice,  also  a  woman's,  but  very  different; 
young,  fresh,  unguarded,  confident.  All  the  same, 
it  would  be  very  annoying  to  have  a  woman  in 
there.  The  only  bath-room  on  the  floor  was  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs  in  the  front  hall,  and  he  would 
always  be  running  into  her  as  he  came  or  went 
from  his  bath.  He  would  have  to  be  more  careful 
to  see  that  Caesar  didn't  leave  bones  about  the 
hall,  too;  and  she  might  object  when  he  cooked 
steak  and  onions  on  his  gas  burner. 

As  soon  as  the  talking  ceased  and  the  women 
left,  he  forgot  them.  He  was  absorbed  in  a 
study  of  paradise  fish  at  the  Aquarium,  staring  out 
at  people  through  the  glass  and  green  water  of 
their  tank.  It  was  a  highly  gratifying  idea;  the 
incommunicability  of  one  stratum  of  animal  life 
with  another, —  though  Hedger  pretended  it  was 
only  an  experiment  in  unusual  lighting.  When  he 
heard  trunks  knocking  against  the  sides  of  the 
narrow  hall,  then  he  realized  that  she  was  moving 
in  at  once.  Toward  noon,  groans  and  deep  gasps 
—  13  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

and  the  creaking  of  ropes,  made  him  aware  that  .a 
piano  was  arriving.  After  the  tramp  of  the  mov- 
ers died  away  down  the  stairs,  somebody  touched 
off  a  few  scales  and  chords  on  the  instrument,  and 
then  there  was  peace.  Presently  he  heard  her 
lock  her  door  and  go  down  the  hall  humming 
something;  going  out  to  lunch,  probably.  He 
stuck  his  brushes  in  a  can  of  turpentine  and  put  on 
his  hat,  not  stopping  to  wash  his  hands.  Caesar 
was  smelling  along  the  crack  under  the  bolted 
doors;  his  bony  tail  stuck  out  hard  as  a  hickory 
withe,  and  the  hair  was  standing  up  about  his  ele- 
gant collar. 

Hedger  encouraged  him.  u  Come  along, 
Caesar.  You'll  soon  get  used  to  a  new  smell." 

In  the  hall  stood  an  enormous  trunk,  behind  the 
ladder  that  led  to  the  roof,  just  opposite  Hedger' s 
door.  The  dog  flew  at  it  with  a  growl  of  hurt 
amazement.  They  went  down  three  flights  of 
stairs  and  out  into  the  brilliant  May  afternoon. 

Behind  the  Square,  Hedger  and  his  dog  de- 
scended into  a  basement  oyster  house  where  there 
were  no  tablecloths  on  the  tables  and  no  handles 
on  the  coffee  cups,  and  the  floor  was  covered  with 
sawdust,  and  Caesar  was  always  welcome, —  not 
that  he  needed  any  such  precautionary  flooring. 
All  the  carpets  of  Persia  would  have  been  safe  for 
him.  Hedger  ordered  steak  and  onions  absent- 
mindedly,  not  realizing  why  he  had  an  apprehen- 
—  14  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


sion  that  this  dish  might  be  less  readily  at  hand 
hereafter.  While  he  ate,  Caesar  sat  beside  his 
chair,  gravely  disturbing  the  sawdust  with  his  tail. 

After  lunch  Hedger  strolled  about  the  Square 
for  the  dog's  health  and  watched  the  stages  pull 
out;  —  that  was  almost  the  very  last  summer  of 
the  old  horse  stages  on  Fifth  Avenue.  The  foun- 
tain had  but  lately  begun  operations  for  the  season 
and  was  throwing  up  a  mist  of  rainbow  water 
which  now  and  then  blew  south  and  sprayed  a 
bunch  of  Italian  babies  that  were  being  supported 
on  the  outer  rim  by  older,  very  little  older,  broth- 
ers and  sisters.  Plump  robins  were  hopping 
about  on  the  soil;  the  grass  was  newly  cut 
and  blindingly  green.  Looking  up  the  Avenue 
through  the  Arch,  one  could  see  the  young  pop- 
lars with  their  bright,  sticky  leaves,  and  the 
Brevoort  glistening  in  its  spring  coat  of  paint,  and 
shining  horses  and  carriages, —  occasionally  an 
automobile,  mis-shapen  and  sullen,  like  an  ugly 
threat  in  a  stream  of  things  that  were  bright  and 
beautiful  and  alive. 

While  Caesar  and  his  master  were  standing  by 
the  fountain,  a  girl  approached  them,  crossing  the 
Square.  Hedger  noticed  her  because  she  wore  a 
lavender  cloth  suit  and  carried  in  her  arms  a  big 
bunch  of  fresh  lilacs.  He  saw  that  she  was  young 
and  handsome, —  beautiful,  in  fact,  with  a  splen- 
did figure  and  good  action.  She,  too,  paused  by 
—  15  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

the  fountain  and  looked  back  through  the  Arch 
up  the  Avenue.  She  smiled  rather  patronizingly 
as  she  looked,  and  at  the  same  time  seemed  de- 
lighted. Her  slowly  curving  upper  lip  and  half- 
closed  eyes  seemed  to  say:  "  You're  gay,  you're 
exciting,  you  are  quite  the  right  sort  of  thing;  but 
you're  none  too  fine  for  me!  " 

In  the  moment  she  tarried,  Caesar  stealthily 
approached  her  and  sniffed  at  the  hem  of  her 
lavender  skirt,  then,  when  she  went  south  like  an 
arrow,  he  ran  back  to  his  master  and  lifted  a  face 
full  of  emotion  and  alarm,  his  lower  lip  twitching 
under  his  sharp  white  teeth  and  his  hazel  eyes 
pointed  with  a  very  definite  discovery.  He  stood 
thus,  motionless,  while  Hedger  watched  the  laven- 
der girl  go  up  the  steps  and  through  the  door  of 
the  house  in  which  he  lived. 

*  You're  right,  my  boy,  it's  she  !  She  might  be 
worse  looking,  you  know." 

When  they  mounted  to  the  studio,  the  new 
lodger's  door,  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  was  a  little 
ajar,  and  Hedger  caught  the  warm  perfume  of 
lilacs  just  brought  in  out  of  the  sun.  He  was 
used  to  the  musty  smell  of  the  old  hall  carpet. 
(The  nurse-lessee  had  once  knocked  at  his  studio 
door  and  complained  that  Caesar  must  be  some- 
what responsible  for  the  particular  flavour  of  that 
mustiness,  and  Hedger  had  never  spoken  to  her 
since.)  He  was  used  to  the  old  smell,  and  he  pre- 
—  16  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


ferred  it  to  that  of  the  lilacs,  and  so  did  his  com- 
panion, whose  nose  was  so  much  more  discriminat- 
ing. Hedger  shut  his  door  vehemently,  and  fell 
to  work. 

Most  young  men  who  dwell  in  obscure  studios 
in  New  York  have  had  a  beginning,  come  out  of 
something,  have  somewhere  a  home  town,  a 
family,  a  paternal  roof.  But  Don  Hedger  had 
no  such  background.  He  was  a  foundling,  and 
had  grown  up  in  a  school  for  homeless  boys,  where 
book-learning  was  a  negligible  part  of  the  curricu- 
lum. When  he  was  sixteen,  a  Catholic  priest  took 
him  to  Greensburg,  Pennsylvania,  to  keep  house 
for  him.  The  priest  did  something  to  fill  in  the 
large  gaps  in  the  boy's  education, —  taught  him 
to  like  "  Don  Quixote  "  .  and  "  The  Golden 
Legend,"  and  encouraged  him  to  mess  with  paints 
and  crayons  in  his  room  up  under  the  slope  of  the 
mansard.  When  Don  wanted  to  go  to  New  York 
to  study  at  the  Art  League,  the  priest  got  him  a 
night  job  as  packer  in  one  of  the  big  department 
stores.  Since  then,  Hedger  had  taken  care  of 
himself;  that  was  his  only  responsibility.  He  was 
singularly  unencumbered;  had  no  family  duties,  no 
social  ties,  no  obligations  toward  any  one  but  his 
landlord.  Since  he  travelled  light,  he  had  trav- 
elled rather  far.  He  had  got  over  a  good  deal  of 
the  earth's  surface,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he 
never  in  his  life  had  more  than  three  hundred  dol- 
—  17  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

lars  ahead  at  any  one  time,  and  he  had  already 
outlived  a  succession  of  convictions  and  revelations 
about  his  art. 

Though  he  was  now  but  twenty-six  years  old,  he 
had  twice  been  on  the  verge  of  becoming  a  market- 
able product;  once  through  some  studies  of  New 
York  streets  he  did  for  a  magazine,  and  once 
through  a  collection  of  pastels  he  brought  home 
from  New  Mexico,  which  Remington,  then  at  the 
height  of  his  popularity,  happened  to  see,  and  gen- 
erously tried  to  push.  But  on  both  occasions 
Hedger  decided  that  this  was  something  he  didn't 
wish  to  carry  further, —  simply  the  old  thing  over 
again  and  got  nowhere, —  so  he  took  enquiring 
dealers  experiments  in  a  u  later  manner,"  that 
made  them  put  him  out  of  the  shop.  When  he 
ran  short  of  money,  he  could  always  get  any 
amount  of  commercial  work;  he  was  an  expert 
draughtsman  and  worked  with  lightning  speed. 
The  rest  of  his  time  he  spent  in  groping  his  wa^( 
from  one  kind  of  painting  into  another,  or  trav- 
elling about  without  luggage,  like  a  tramp,  and 
he  was  chiefly  occupied  with  getting  rid  of  ideas 
he  had  once  thought  very  fine. 

Hedger's  circumstances,  since  he  had  moved  to 
Washington  Square,  were  affluent  compared  to 
anything  he  had  ever  known  before.  He  was  now 
able  to  pay  advance  rent  and  turn  the  key  on  his 
studio  when  he  went  away  for  four  months  at  a 
—  18  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


stretch.  It  didn't  occur  to  him  to  wish  to  be 
richer  than  this.  To  be  sure,  he  did  without  a 
great  many  things  other  people  think  necessary, 
but  he  didn't  miss  them,  because  he  had  never 
had  them.  He  belonged  to  no  clubs,  visited  no 
houses,  had  no  studio  friends,  and  he  ate  his  din- 
ner alone  in  some  decent  little  restaurant,  even  on 
Christmas  and  New  Year's.  For  days  together 
he  talked  to  nobody  but  his  dog  and  the  janitress 
and  the  lame  oysterman. 

After  he  shut  the  door  and  settled  down  to  his 
paradise  fish  on  that  first  Tuesday  in  May,  Hedger 
forgot  all  about  his  new  neighbour.  When  the 
light  failed,  he  took  Caesar  out  for  a  walk.  On 
the  way  home  he  did  his  marketing  on  West 
Houston  Street,  with  a  one-eyed  Italian  woman 
who  always  cheated  him.  After  he  had  cooked 
his  beans  and  scallopini,  and  drunk  half  a  bot- 
tle of  Chianti,  he  put  his  dishes  in  the  sink 
and  went  up  on  the  roof  to  srnoke.  He  was  the 
only  person  in  the  house  who  ever  went  to  the 
roof,  and  he  had  a  secret  understanding  with 
the  janitress  about  it.  He  was  to  have  "  the 
privilege  of  the  roof,"  as  she  said,  if  he  opened 
the  heavy  trapdoor  on  sunny  days  to  air  out 
the  upper  hall,  and  was  watchful  to  close  it 
when  rain  threatened.  Mrs.  Foley  was  fat  and 
dirty  and  hated  to  climb  stairs, —  besides,  the  roof 
was  reached  by  a  perpendicular  iron  ladder,  defi- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

nitely  inaccessible  to  a  woman  of  her  bulk,  and  the 
iron  door  at  the  top  of  it  was  too  heavy  for  any 
but  Hedger' s  strong  arm  to  lift.  Hedger  was  not 
above  medium  height,  but  he  practised  with 
weights  and  dumb-bells,  and  in  the  shoulders  he 
was  as  strong  as  a  gorilla. 

So  Hedger  had  the  roof  to  himself.  He  and 
Caesar  often  slept  up  there  on  hot  nights,  rolled 
in  blankets  he  had  brought  home  from  Arizona. 
He  mounted  with  Caesar  under  his  left  arm.  The 
dog  had  never  learned  to  climb  a  perpendicular 
ladder,  and  never  did  he  feel  so  much  his  master's 
greatness  and  his  own  dependence  upon  him,  as 
when  he  crept  under  his  arm  for  this  perilous 
ascent.  Up  there  was  even  gravel  to  scratch  in, 
and  a  dog  could  do  whatever  he  liked,  so  long  as 
he  did  not  bark.  It  was  a  kind  of  Heaven,  which 
no  one  was  strong  enough  to  reach  but  his  great, 
paint-smelling  master. 

On  this  blue  May  night  there  was  a  slender, 
girlish  looking  young  moon  in  the  west,  playing 
with  a  whole  company  of  silver  stars.  Now  and 
then  one  of  them  darted  away  from  the  group 
and  shot  off  into  the  gauzy  blue  with  a  soft  little 
trail  of  light,  like  laughter.  Hedger  and  his  dog 
were  delighted  when  a  star  did  this.  They  were 
quite  lost  in  watching  the  glittering  game,  when 
they  were  suddenly  diverted  by  a  sound, —  not 
from  the  stars,  though  it  was  music.  It  was  not 
—  20  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


the  Prologue  to  Pagliacci,  which  rose  ever  and 
anon  on  hot  evenings  from  an  Italian  tenement  on 
Thompson  Street,  with  the  gasps  of  the  corpulent 
baritone  who  got  behind  it;  nor  was  it  the  hurdy- 
gurdy  man,  who  often  played  at  the  corner  in  the 
balmy  twilight.  No,  this  was  a  woman's  voice, 
singing  the  tempestuous,  over-lapping  phrases  of 
Signer  Puccini,  then  comparatively  new  in  the 
world,  but  already  so  popular  that  even  Hedger 
recognized  his  unmistakable  gusts  of  breath.  He 
looked  about  over  the  roofs;  all  was  blue  and  still, 
with  the  well-built  chimneys  that  were  never  used 
now  standing  up  dark  and  mournful.  He  moved 
softly  toward  the  yellow  quadrangle  where  the  gas 
from  the  hall  shone  up  through  the  half-lifted  trap- 
door. Oh  yes !  It  came  up  through  the  hole  like 
a  strong  draught,  a  big,  beautiful  voice,  and  it 
sounded  rather  like  a  professional's.  A  piano  had 
arrived  in  the  morning,  Hedger  remembered. 
This  might  be  a  very  great  nuisance.  It  would 
be  pleasant  enough  to  listen  to,  if  you  could  turn 
it  on  and  off  as  you  wished;  but  you  couldn't. 
Caesar,  with  the  gas  light  shining  on  his  collar 
and  his  ugly  but  sensitive  face,  panted  and  looked 
up  for  information.  Hedger  put  down  a  reas- 
suring hand. 

"  I  don't  know.     We  can't  tell  yet.     It  may  not 
be  so  bad." 

He  stayed  on  the  roof  until  all  was  still  below, 
—  21  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

and  finally  descended,  with  quite  a  new  feeling 
about  his  neighbour.  Her  voice,  like  her  figure, 
inspired  respect, —  if  one  did  not  choose  to  call  it 
admiration.  Her  door  was  shut,  the  transom  was 
dark;  nothing  remained  of  her  but  the  obtrusive 
trunk,  unrightfully  taking  up  room  in  the  narrow 
hall. 

II 

For  two  days  Hedger  didn't  see  her.  He 
was  painting  eight  hours  a  day  just  then,  and 
only  went  out  to  hunt  for  food.  He  noticed 
that  she  practised  scales  and  exercises  for  about 
an  hour  in  the  morning;  then  she  locked  her 
door,  went  humming  down  the  hall,  and  left 
him  in  peace.  He  heard  her  getting  her  coffee 
ready  at  about  the  same  time  he  got  his.  Earlier 
still,  she  passed  his  room  on  her  way  to  her  bath. 
In  the  evening  she  sometimes  sang,  but  on  the 
whole  she  didn't  bother  him.  When  he  was  work- 
ing well  he  did  not  notice  anything  much.  The 
morning  paper  lay  before  his  door  until  he  reached 
out  for  his  milk  bottle,  then  he  kicked  the  sheet 
inside  and  it  lay  on  the  floor  until  evening.  Some- 
times he  read  it  and  sometimes  he  did  not.  He 
forgot  there  was  anything  of  importance  going 
on  in  the  world  outside  of  his  third  floor  studio. 
Nobody  had  ever  taught  him  that  he  ought  to  be 
interested  in  other  people ;  in  the  Pittsburgh  steel 
—  22  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


strike,  in  the  Fresh  Air  Fund,  in  the  scandal  about 
the  Babies'  Hospital.  A  grey  wolf,  living  in  a 
Wyoming  canyon,  would  hardly  have  been  less  con- 
cerned about  these  things  than  was  Don  Hedger. 

One  morning  he  was  coming  out  of  the  bath- 
room at  the  front  end  of  the  hall,  having  just 
given  Caesar  his  bath  and  rubbed  him  into  a  glow 
with  a  heavy  towel.  Before  the  door,  lying  in 
wait  for  him,  as  it  were,  stood  a  tall  figure  in  a 
flowing  blue  silk  dressing  gown  that  fell  away 
from  her  marble  arms.  In  her  hands  she  carried 
various  accessories  of  the  bath. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said  distinctly,  standing  in  his 
way,  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  wash  your  dog  in  the 
tub.  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing !  I've  found 
his  hair  in  the  tub,  and  I've  smelled  a  doggy  smell, 
and  now  I've  caught  you  at  it.  It's  an  outrage !  " 

Hedger  was  badly  frightened.  She  was  so  tall 
and  positive,  and  was  fairly  blazing  with  beauty 
and  anger.  He  stood  blinking,  holding  on  to 
his  sponge  and  dog-soap,  feeling  that  he  ought  to 
bow  very  low  to  her.  But  what  he  actually  said 
was: 

"  Nobody  has  ever  objected  before.  I  always 
wash  the  tub, —  and,  anyhow,  he's  cleaner  than 
most  people." 

"Cleaner  than  me?"  her  eyebrows  went  up, 
her  white  arms  and  neck  and  her  fragrant  person 
seemed  to  scream  at  him  like  a  band  of  outraged 
—  23  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

nymphs.  Something  flashed  through  his  mind 
about  a  man  who  was  turned  into  a  dog,  or  was 
pursued  by  dogs,  because  he  unwittingly  intruded 
upon  the  bath  of  beauty. 

"  No,  I  didn't  mean  that/'  he  muttered,  turning 
scarlet  under  the  bluish  stubble  of  his  muscular 
jaws.  "  But  I  know  he's  cleaner  than  I  am." 

"That  I  don't  doubt!"  Her  voice  sounded 
like  a  soft  shivering  of  crystal,  and  with  a  smile 
of  pity  she  drew  the  folds  of  her  voluminous  blue 
Vobe  close  about  her  and  allowed  the  wretched 
man  to  pass.  Even  Caesar  was  frightened;  he 
darted  like  a  streak  down  the  hall,  through  the 
door  and  to  his  own  bed  in  the  corner  among  the 
bones. 

Hedger  stood  still  in  the  doorway,  listening  to 
indignant  sniffs  and  coughs  and  a  great  swishing 
of  water  about  the  sides  of  the  tub.  He  had 
washed  it;  but  as  he  had  washed  it  with  Caesar's 
sponge,  it  was  quite  possible  that  a  few  bristles 
remained;  the  dog  was  shedding  now.  The  play- 
wright had  never  objected,  nor  had  the  jovial 
illustrator  who  occupied  the  front  apartment, — 
but  he,  as  he  admitted,  "  was  usually  pye-eyed, 
when  he  wasn't  in  Buffalo."  He  went  home  to 
Buffalo  sometimes  to  rest  his  nerves. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Hedger  that  any  one 
would  mind  using  the  tub  after  Caesar;  —  but 
then,  he  had  never  seen  a  beautiful  girl  caparisoned 
—  24  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


for  the  bath  before.  As  soon  as  he  beheld  her 
standing  there,  he  realized  the  unfitness  of  it.  For 
that  matter,  she  ought  not  to  step  into  a  tub  that 
any  other  mortal  had  bathed  in ;  the  illustrator  was 
sloppy  and  left  cigarette  ends  on  the  moulding. 

All  morning  as  he  worked  he  was  gnawed  by  a 
spiteful  desire  to  get  back  at  her.  It  rankled 
that  he  had  been  so  vanquished  by  her  disdain. 
When  he  heard  her  locking  her  door  to  go  out  for 
lunch,  he  stepped  quickly  into  the  hall  in  his  messy 
painting  coat,  and  addressed  her. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  exigent,  Miss," — he  had 
certain  grand  words  that  he  used  upon  occasion  — 
"  but  if  this  is  your  trunk,  it's  rather  in  the  way 
here." 

"  Oh,  very  well !  "  she  exclaimed  carelessly, 
dropping  her  keys  into  her  handbag.  "  I'll  have 
it  moved  when  I  can  get  a  man  to  do  it,"  and  she 
went  down  the  hall  with  her  free,  roving  stride. 

Her  name,  Hedger  discovered  from  her  letters, 
which  the  postman  left  on  the  table  in  the  lower 
hall,  was  Eden  Bower. 

Ill 

In  the  closet  that  was  built  against  the  partition 

separating  his  room  from  Miss  Bower's,  Hedger 

kept  all  his  wearing  apparel,  some  of  it  on  hooks 

and  hangers,  some  of  it  on  the  floor.     When  he 

—  25  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

opened  his  closet  door  now-a-days,  little  dust- 
coloured  insects  flew  out  on  downy  wing,  and  he 
suspected  that  a  brood  of  moths  were  hatching 
in  his  winter  overcoat.  Mrs.  Foley,  the  jan- 
itress,  told  him  to  bring  down  all  his  heavy  clothes 
and  she  would  give  them  a  beating  and  hang  them 
in  the  court.  The  closet  was  in  such  disorder  that 
he  shunned  the  encounter,  but  one  hot  afternoon 
he  set  himself  to  the  task.  First  he  threw  out  a 
pile  of  forgotten  laundry  and  tied  it  up  in  a  sheet. 
The  bundle  stood  as  high  as  his  middle  when  he 
had  knotted  the  corners.  Then  he  got  his  shoes 
and  overshoes  together.  When  he  took  his>over- 
coat  from  its  place  against  the  partition,  a  long 
ray  of  yellow  light  shot  across  the  dark  enclosure, 
—  a  knot  hole,  evidently,  in  the  high  wainscoating 
of  the  west  room.  He  had  never  noticed  it  be- 
fore, and  without  realizing  what  he  was  doing, 
he  stooped  and  squinted  through  it. 

Yonder,  in  a  pool  of  sunlight,  stood  his  new 
neighbour,  wholly  unclad,  doing  exercises  of  some 
sort  before  a  long  gilt  mirror.  Hedger  did  not 
happen  to  think  how  unpardonable  it  was  of  him 
to  watch  her.  Nudity  was  not  improper  to  any 
one  who  had  worked  so  much  from  the  figure,  and 
he  continued  to  look,  simply  because  he  had  never 
seen  a  woman's  body  so  beautiful  as  this  one, — 
positively  glorious  in  action.  As  she  swung  her 
arms  and  changed  from  one  pivot  of  motion  to 
—  26  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


another,  muscular  energy  seemed  to  flow  through 
her  from  her  toes  to  her  finger-tips.  The  soft 
flush  of  exercise  and  the  gold  of  afternoon  sun 
played  over  her  flesh  together,  enveloped  her  in 
a  luminous  mist  which,  as  she  turned  and  twisted, 
made  now  an  arm,  now  a  shoulder,  now  a  thigh, 
dissolve  in  pure  light  and  instantly  recover  its  out- 
line with  the  next  gesture.  Hedger's  fingers 
curved  as  if  he  were  holding  a  crayon;  mentally  he 
was  doing  the  whole  figure  in  a  single  running 
line,  and  the  charcoal  seemed  to  explode  in  his 
hand  at  the  point  where  the  energy  of  each  ges- 
ture was  discharged  into  the  whirling  disc  of 
light,  from  a  foot  or  shoulder,  from  the  up-thrust 
chin  or  the  lifted  breasts. 

He  could  not  have  told  whether  he  watched 
her  for  six  minutes  or  sixteen.  When  her  gym- 
nastics were  over,  she  paused  to  catch  up  a  lock 
of  hair  that  had  come  down,  and  examined  with 
solicitude  a  little  reddish  mole  that  grew  under  her 
left  arm-pit.  Then,  with  her  hand  on  her  hip, 
she  walked  unconcernedly  across  the  room  and 
disappeared  through  the  door  into  her  bedcham- 
ber. 

Disappeared  —  Don  Hedger  was  crouching  on 
his  knees,  staring  at  the  golden  shower  which 
poured  in  through  the  west  windows,  at  the  lake 
of  gold  sleeping  on  the  faded  Turkish  carpet. 
The  spot  was  enchanted;  a  vision  out  of  Alex- 
—  27  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

andria,  out  of  the  remote  pagan  past,  had  bathed 
itself  there  in  Helianthine  fire. 

When  he  crawled  out  of  his  closet,  he  stood 
blinking  at  the  grey  sheet  stuffed  with  laundry, 
not  knowing  what  had  happened  to  him.  He 
felt  a  little  sick  as  he  contemplated  the  bundle. 
Everything  here  was  different;  he  hated  the  dis- 
order of  the  place,  the  grey  prison  light,  his  old 
shoes  and  himself  and  all  his  slovenly  habits. 
The  black  calico  curtains  that  ran  on  wires  over 
his  big  window  were  white  with  dust.  There 
were  three  greasy  frying  pans  in  the  sink,  and 
the  sink  itself —  He  felt  desperate.  He 
couldn't  stand  this  another  minute.  He  took  up 
an  armful  of  winter  clothes  and  ran  down  four 
flights  into  the  basement. 

"  Mrs.  Foley,"  he  began,  "  I  want  my  room 
cleaned  this  afternoon,  thoroughly  cleaned.  Can 
you  get  a  woman  for  me  right  away?  " 

"  Is  it  company  you're  having?  "  the  fat,  dirty 
janitress  enquired.  Mrs.  Foley  was  the  widow 
of  a  useful  Tammany  man,  and  she  owned  real 
estate  in  Flatbush.  She  was  huge  and  soft  as  a 
feather  bed.  Her  face  and  arms  were  perman- 
ently coated  with  dust,  grained  like  wood  where 
the  sweat  had  trickled. 

"  Yes,  company.     That's  it." 

"  Well,  this  is  a  queer  time  of  the  day  to  be 
asking  for  a  cleaning  woman.  It's  likely  I  can 
—.28  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


get  you  old  Lizzie,  if  she's  not  drunk.     I'll  send 
Willy  round  to  see." 

Willy,  the  son  of  fourteen,  roused  from  the 
stupor  and  stain  of  his  fifth  box  of  cigarettes  by 
the  gleam  of  a  quarter,  went  out.  In  five  min- 
utes he  returned  with  old  Lizzie, —  she  smelling 
strong  of  spirits  and  wearing  several  jackets  which 
she  had  put  on  one  over  the  other,  and  a  number 
of  skirts,  long  and  short,  which  made  her  resemble 
an  animated  dish-clout.  She  had,  of  course,  to 
borrow  her  equipment  from  Mrs.  Foley,  and  toiled 
up  the  long  flights,  dragging  mop  and  pail  and 
broom.  She  told  Hedger  to  be  of  good  cheer, 
for  he  had  got  the  right  woman  for  the  job,  and 
showed  him  a  great  leather  strap  she  wore  about 
her  wrist  to  prevent  dislocation  of  tendons.  She 
swished  about  the  place,  scattering  dust  and  splash- 
ing soapsuds,  while  he  watched  her  in  nervous 
despair.  He  stood  over  Lizzie  and  made  her 
scour  the  sink,  directing  her  roughly,  then  paid 
her  and  got  rid  of  her.  Shutting  the  door  on  his 
failure,  he  hurried  off  with  his  dog  to  lose  him- 
self among  the  stevedores  and  dock  labourers  on 
West  Street. 

A  strange  chapter  began  for  Don  Hedger. 
Day  after  day,  at  that  hour  in  the  afternoon,  the 
hour  before  his  neighbour  dressed  for  dinner,  he 
crouched  down  in  his  closet  to  watch  her  go 
through  her  mysterious  exercises.  It  did  not 
—  29  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

occur  to  him  that  his  conduct  was  detestable ; 
there  was  nothing  shy  or  retreating  about  this 
unclad  girl, —  a  bold  body,  studying  itself  quite 
coolly  and  evidently  well  pleased  with  itself,  do- 
ing all  this  for  a  purpose.  Hedger  scarcely  re- 
garded his  action  as  conduct  at  all;  it  was  some- 
thing that  had  happened  to  him.  More  than  once 
he  went  out  and  tried  to  stay  away  for  the  whole 
afternoon,  but  at  about  five  o'clock  he  was  sure 
to  find  himself  among  his  old  shoes  in  the  dark. 
The  pull  of  that  aperture  was  stronger  than  his 
will, —  and  he  had  always  considered  his  will  the 
strongest  thing  about  him.  When  she  threw  her- 
self upon  the  divan  and  lay  resting,  he  still  stared, 
holding  his  breath.  His  nerves  were  so  on  edge 
that  a  sudden  noise  made  him  start  and  brought 
out  the  sweat  on  his  forehead.  The  dog  wrould 
come  and  tug  at  his  sleeve,  knowing  that  some- 
thing was  wrong  with  his  master.  If  he  at- 
tempted a  mournful  whine,  those  strong  hands 
closed  about  his  throat. 

When  Hedger  came  slinking  out  of  his  closet, 
he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  couch,  sat  for 
hours  without  moving.  He  was  not  painting  at 
all  now.  This  thing,  whatever  it  was,  drank  him 
up  as  ideas  had  sometimes  done,  and  he  sank  into 
a  stupor  of  idleness  as  deep  and  dark  as  the  stupor 
of  work.  He  could  not  understand  it;  he  was  no 
boy,  he  had  worked  from  models  for  years,  and  a 
—  30  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


woman's  body  was  no  mystery  to  him.  Yet  now 
he  did  nothing  but  sit  and  think  about  one.  He 
slept  very  little,  and  with  the  first  light  of  morn- 
ing he  awoke  as  completely  possessed  by  this 
woman  as  if  he  had  been  with  her  all  the  night 
before.  The  unconscious  operations  of  life  went 
on  in  him  only  to  perpetuate  this  excitement. 
His  brain  held  but  one  image  now  —  vibrated, 
burned  with  it.  It  was  a  heathenish  feeling; 
without  friendliness,  almost  without  tenderness. 
Women  had  come  and  gone  in  Hedger's  life. 
Not  having  had  a  mother  to  begin  with,  his  rela- 
tions with  them,  whether  amorous  or  friendly, 
had  been  casual.  He  got  on  well  with  janitresses 
and  wash-women,  with  Indians  and  with  the  peas- 
ant women  of  foreign  countries.  He  had  friends 
among  the  silk-skirt  factory  girls  who  came  to 
eat  their  lunch  in  Washington  Square,  and  he 
sometimes  took  a  model  for  a  day  in  the  country. 
He  felt  an  unreasoning  antipathy  toward  the  well- 
dressed  women  he  saw  coming  out  of  big  shops, 
or  driving  in  the  Park.  If,  on  his  way  to  the 
Art  Museum,  he  noticed  a  pretty  girl  standing  on 
the  steps  of  one  of  the  houses  on  upper  Fifth 
Avenue,  he  frowned  at  her  and  went  by  with  his 
shoulders  hunched  up  as  if  he  were  cold.  He  had 
never  known  such  girls,  or  heard  them  talk,  or 
seen  the  inside  of  the  houses  in  which  they  lived; 
but  he  believed  them  all  to  be  artificial  and,  in 
—  31  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

an  aesthetic  sense,  perverted.  He  saw  them  en- 
slaved by  desire  of  merchandise  and  manufactured 
articles,  effective  only  in  making  life  complicated 
and  insincere  and  in  embroidering  it  with  ugly 
and  meaningless  trivialities.  They  were  enough, 
he  thought,  to  make  one  almost  forget  woman  as 
she  existed  in  art,  in  thought,  and  in  the  universe. 

He  had  no  desire  to  know  the  woman  who  had, 
for  the  time  at  least,  so  broken  up  his  life, —  no 
curiosity  about  her  every-day  personality.  He 
shunned  any  revelation  of  it,  and  he  listened  for 
Miss  Bower's  coming  and  going,  not  to  encounter, 
but  to  avoid  her.  He  wished  that  the  girl  who 
wore  shirt-waists  and  got  letters  from  Chicago 
would  keep  out  of  his  way,  that  she  did  not  exist. 
With  her  he  had  naught  to  make.  But  in  a  room 
full  of  sun,  before  an  old  mirror,  on  a  little  en- 
chanted rug  of  sleeping  colours,  he  had  seen  a 
woman  who  emerged  naked  through  a  door,  and 
disappeared  naked.  He  thought  of  that  body  as 
never  having  been  clad,  or  as  having  worn  the 
stuffs  and  dyes  of  all  the  centuries  but  his  own. 
And  for  him  she  had  no  geographical  associations; 
unless  with  Crete,  or  Alexandria,  or  Veronese's 
Venice.  She  was  the  immortal  conception,  the 
perennial  theme. 

The  first  break  in  Hedger's  lethargy  occurred 
one  afternoon  when  two  young  men  came  to  take 
Eden  Bower  out  to  dine.  They  went  into  her 
—  32  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


music  room,  laughed  and  talked  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then  took  her  away  with  them.  They 
were  gone  a  long  while,  but  he  did  not  go  out  for 
food  himself;  he  waited  for  them  to  come  back. 
At  last  he  heard  them  coming  down  the  hall,  gayer 
and  more  talkative  than  when  they  left.  One  of 
them  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  they  all  began  to 
sing.  This  Hedger  found  absolutely  unendura- 
ble. He  snatched  up  his  hat  and  went  running 
down  the  stairs.  Caesar  leaped  beside  him,  hop- 
ing that  old  times  were  coming  back.  They  had 
supper  in  the  oysterman's  basement  and  then  sat 
down  in  front  of  their  owrn  doorway.  The  moon 
stood  full  over  the  Square,  a  thing  of  regal  glory; 
but  Hedger  did  not  see  the  moon;  he  was  look- 
ing, murderously,  for  men.  Presently  two,  wear- 
ing straw  hats  and  white  trousers  and  carrying 
canes,  came  down  the  steps  from  his  house.  He 
rose  and  dogged  them  across  the  Square.  They 
were  laughing  and  seemed  very  much  elated  about 
something.  As  one  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette, 
Hedger  caught  from  the  other: 

"  Don't  you  think  she  has  a  beautiful  talent?  " 
His  companion  threw  away  his  match.     "  She 
has  a  beautiful  figure."     They  both  ran  to  catch 
the  stage. 

Hedger  went  back  to  his  studio.     The  light 
was  shining  from  her  transom.     For  the  first  time 
he   violated   her   privacy   at    night,    and   peered 
—  33  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

through  that  fatal  aperture.  She  was  sitting, 
fully  dressed,  in  the  window,  smoking  a  cigarette 
and  looking  out  over  the  housetops.  He  watched 
her  until  she  rose,  looked  about  her  with  a  dis- 
dainful, crafty  smile,  and  turned  out  the  light. 

The  next  morning,  when  Miss  Bower  went  out, 
Hedger  followed  her.  Her  white  skirt  gleamed 
ahead  of  him  as  she  sauntered  about  the  Square. 
She  sat  down  behind  the  Garibaldi  statue  and 
opened  a  music  book  she  carried.  She  turned  the 
leaves  carelessly,  and  several  times  glanced  in  his 
direction.  He  was  on  the  point  of  going  over 
to  her,  when  she  rose  quickly  and  looked  up  at 
the  sky.  A  flock  of  pigeons  had  risen  from  some- 
where in  the  crowded  Italian  quarter  to  the  south, 
and  were  wheeling  rapidly  up  through  the  morn- 
ing air,  soaring  and  dropping,  scattering  and  com- 
ing together,  now  grey,  now  white  as  silver,  as 
they  caught  or  intercepted  the  sunlight.  She  put 
up  her  hand  to  shade  her  eyes  and  followed  them 
with  a  kind  of  defiant  delight  in  her  face. 

Hedger  came  and  stood  beside  her.  "  You've 
surely  seen  them  before?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  still  looking  up.  "  I 
see  them  every  day  from  my  windows.  They  al- 
ways come  home  about  five  o'clock.  Where  do 
they  live?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Probably  some  Italian  raises 
—  34  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


them  for  the  market.  They  were  here  long  be- 
fore I  came,  and  I've  been  here  four  years." 

"  In  that  same  gloomy  room?  Why  didn't  you 
take  mine  when  it  was*  vacant?  " 

"  It  isn't  gloomy.  That's  the  best  light  for 
painting." 

"  Oh,  is  it?  I  don't  know  anything  about 
painting.  I'd  like  to  see  your  pictures  sometime. 
You  have  such  a  lot  in  there.  Don't  they  get 
dusty,  piled  up  against  the  wall  like  that?  " 

"  Not  very.  I'd  be  glad  to  show  them  to  you. 
Is  your  name  really  Eden  Bower?  I've  seen  your 
letters  on  the  table." 

"  Well,  it's  the  name  I'm  going  to  sing  under. 
My  father's  name  is  Bowers,  but  my  friend  Mr. 
Jones,  a  Chicago  newspaper  man  who  writes 
about  music,  told  me  to  drop  the  '  s.'  He's  crazy 
about  my  voice." 

Miss  Bower  didn't  usually  tell  the  whole  story, 
—  about  anything.  Her  first  name,  when  she 
lived  in  Huntington,  Illinois,  was  Edna,  but  Mr. 
Jones  had  persuaded  her  to  change  it  to  one  which 
he  felt  would  be  worthy  of  her  future.  She  was 
quick  to  take  suggestions,  though  she  told  him 
she  "  didn't  see  what  was  the  matter  with 
4  Edna.'  " 

She  explained  to  Hedger  that  she  was  going  to 
Paris  to  study.  She  was  waiting  in  New  York 
—  35  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

for  Chicago  friends  who  were  to  take  her  over, 
but  who  had  been  detained.  "  Did  you  study  in 
Paris?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  I've  never  been  in  Paris.  But  I  was  in 
the  south  of  France  all  last  summer,  studying 

with  C .  He's  the  biggest  man  among  the 

moderns, —  at  least  I  think  so." 

Miss  Bower  sat  down  and  made  room  for  him 
on  the  bench.  "  Do  tell  me  about  it.  I  expected 
to  be  there  by  this  time,  and  I  can't  wait  to  find 
out  what  it's  like." 

Hedger  began  to  relate  how  he  had  seen  some 
of  this  Frenchman's  work  in  an  exhibition,  and  de- 
ciding at  once  that  this  was  the  man  for  him,  he 
had  taken  a  boat  for  Marseilles  the  next  week, 
going  over  steerage.  He  proceeded  at  once  to 
the  little  town  on  the  coast  where  his  painter 
lived,  and  presented  himself.  The  man  never 
took  pupils,  but  because  Hedger  had  come  so  far, 
he  let  him  stay.  Hedger  lived  at  the  master's 
house  and  every  day  they  went  out  together  to 
paint,  sometimes  on  the  blazing  rocks  down  by 
the  sea.  They  wrapped  themselves  in  light 
woollen  blankets  and  didn't  feel  the  heat.  Being 
there  and  working  with  C was  being  in  Para- 
dise, Hedger  concluded;  he  learned  more  in  three 
months  than  in  all  his  life  before. 

Eden  Bower  laughed.  "  You're  a  funny  fel- 
low. Didn't  you  do  anything  but  work?  Are 

-36- 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


the  women  very  beautiful?  Did  you  have 
awfully  good  things  to  eat  and  drink?  " 

Hedger  said  some  of  the  women  were  fine  look- 
ing, especially  one  girl  who  went  about  selling 
fish  and  lobsters.  About  the  food  there  was 
nothing  remarkable, —  except  the  ripe  figs,  he 
liked  those.  They  drank  sour  wine,  and  used 
goat-butter,  which  was  strong  and  full  of  hair,  as 
it  was  churned  in  a  goat  skin. 

"  But  don't  they  have  parties  or  banquets? 
Aren't  there  any  fine  hotels  down  there?  " 

'  Yes,  but  they  are  all  closed  in  summer,  and 
the  country  people  are  poor.  It's  a  beautiful 
country,  though." 

"How,  beautiful?"  she  persisted. 

"  If  you  want  to  go  in,  I'll  show  you  some 
sketches,  and  you'll  see." 

Miss  Bower  rose.  "  All  right.  I  won't  go  to 
my  fencing  lesson  this  morning.  Do  you  fence? 
Here  comes  your  dog.  You  can't  move  but  he's 
after  you.  He  always  makes  a  face  at  me  when 
I  meet  him  in  the  hall,  and  shows  his  nasty  little 
teeth  as  if  he  wanted  to  bite  me." 

In  the  studio  Hedger  got  out  his  sketches,  but 
to  Miss  Bower,  whose  favourite  pictures  were 
Christ  Before  Pilate  and  a  redhaired  Magdalen 
of  Henner,  these  landscapes  were  not  at  all  beau- 
tiful, and  they  gave  her  no  idea  of  any  country 
whatsoever.  She  was  careful  not  to  commit  her- 
—  37  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

self,  however.  Her  vocal  teacher  had  already 
convinced  her  that  she  had  a  great  deal  to  learn 
about  many  things. 

'  Why  don't  we  go  out  to  lunch  somewhere?  " 
Hedger  asked,  and  began  to  dust  his  fingers  with 
a  handkerchief  —  which  he  got  out  of  sight  as 
swiftly  as  possible. 

"  All  right,  the  Brevoort,"  she  said  carelessly. 
"  I  think  that's  a  good  place,  and  they  have  good 
wine.  I  don't  care  for  cocktails." 

Hedger  felt  his  chin  uneasily.  "  I'm  afraid  I 
haven't  shaved  this  morning.  If  you  could  wait 
for  me  in  the  Square?  It  won't  take  me  ten  min- 
utes." 

Left  alone,  he  found  a  clean  collar  and  hand- 
kerchief, brushed  his  coat  and  blacked  his  shoes, 
and  last  of  all  dug  up  ten  dollars  from  the  bottom 
of  an  old  copper  kettle  he  had  brought  from 
Spain.  His  winter  hat  was  of  such  a  complexion 
that  the  Brevoort  hall  boy  winked  at  the  porter 
as  he  took  it  and  placed  it  on  the  rack  in  a  row  of 
fresh  straw  ones. 

IV 

That  afternoon  Eden  Bower  was  lying  on  the 
couch  in  her  music  room,  her  face  turned  to  the 
window,  watching  the  pigeons.  Reclining  thus 
she  could  see  none  of  the  neighbouring  roofs,  only 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


the  sky  itself  and  the  birds  that  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  her  field  of  vision,  white  as  scraps  of  pa- 
per blowing  in  the  wind.  She  was  thinking  that 
she  was  young  and  handsome  and  had  had  a  good 
lunch,  that  a  very  easy-going,  light-hearted  city 
lay  in  the  streets  below  her;  and  she  was  wonder- 
ing why  she  found  this  queer  painter  chap,  with  his 
lean,  bluish  cheeks  and  heavy  black  eyebrows, 
more  interesting  than  the  smart  young  men  she 
met  at  her  teacher's  studio. 

Eden  Bower  was,  at  twenty,  very  much  the  same 
person  that  we  all  know  her  to  be  at  forty,  ex- 
cept that  she  knew  a  great  deal  less.  But  one 
thing  she  knew:  that  she  was  to  be  Eden  Bower. 
She  was  like  some  one  standing  before  a  great 
show  window  full  of  beautiful  and  costly  things, 
deciding  which  she  will  order.  She  understands 
that  they  will  not  all  be  delivered  immediately, 
but  one  by  one  they  will  arrive  at  her  door.  She 
already  knew  some  of  the  many  things  that  were 
to  happen  to  her;  for  instance,  that  the  Chicago 
millionaire  who  was  going  to  take  her  abroad 
with  his  sister  as  chaperone,  would  eventually 
press  his  claim  in  quite  another  manner.  He  was 
the  most  circumspect  of  bachelors,  afraid  of 
everything  obvious,  even  of  women  who  were  too 
flagrantly  handsome.  He  was  a  nervous  collector 
of  pictures  and  furniture,  a  nervous  patron  of 
music,  and  a  nervous  host;  very  cautious  about  his 
—  39  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

health,  and  about  any  course  of  conduct  that  might 
make  him  ridiculous.  But  she  knew  that  he 
would  at  last  throw  all  his  precautions  to  the 
winds. 

People  like  Eden  Bower  are  inexplicable.  Her 
father  sold  farming  machinery  in  Huntington, 
Illinois,  and  she  had  grown  up  with  no  acquaint- 
ances or  experiences  outside  of  that  prairie  town. 
Yet  from  her  earliest  childhood  she  had  not  one 
conviction  or  opinion  in  common  with  the  peo- 
ple about  her, —  the  only  people  she  knew.  Be- 
fore she  was  out  of  short  dresses  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  that  she  was  going  to  be  an  actress, 
that  she  would  live  far  away  in  great  cities,  that 
she  would  be  much  admired  by  men  and  would 
have  everything  she  wanted.  When  she  was 
thirteen,  and  was  already  singing  and  reciting  for 
church  entertainments,  she  read  in  some  illus- 
trated magazine  a  long  article  about  the  late  Czar 
of  Russia,  then  just  come  to  the  throne  or  about 
to  come  to  it.  After  that,  lying  in  the  hammock 
on  the  front  porch  on  summer  evenings,  or  sitting 
through  a  long  sermon  in  the  family  pew,  she 
amused  herself  by  trying  to  make  up  her  mind 
whether  she  would  or  would  not  be  the  Czar's 
mistress  when  she  played  in  his  Capital.  Now 
Edna  had  met  this  fascinating  word  only  in  the 
novels  of  Ouida, —  her  hard-worked  little  mother 
kept  a  long  row  of  them  in  the  upstairs  store- 
—  40  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


room,  behind  the  linen  chest.  In  Huntington, 
women  who  bore  that  relation  to  men  were  called 
by  a  very  different  name,  and  their  lot  was  not  an 
enviable  one;  of  all  the  shabby  and  poor,  they 
were  the  shabbiest.  But  then,  Edna  had  never 
lived  in  Huntington,  not  even  before  she  began 
to  find  books  like  "  Sapho  "  and  "  Mademoiselle 
de  Maupin,"  secretly  sold  in  paper  covers  through- 
out Illinois.  It  was  as  if  she  had  come  into  Hunt- 
ington, into  the  Bowers  family,  on  one  of  the 
trains  that  puffed  over  the  marshes  behind  their 
back  fence  all  day  long,  and  was  waiting  for  an- 
other train  to  take  her  out. 

As  she  grew  older  and  handsomer,  she  had 
many  beaux,  but  these  small-town  boys  didn't  in- 
terest her.  If  a  lad  kissed  her  when  he  brought 
her  home  from  a  dance,  she  was  indulgent  and  she 
rather  liked  it.  But  if  he  pressed  her  further, 
she  slipped  away  from  him,  laughing.  After  she 
began  to  sing  in  Chicago,  she  was  consistently  dis- 
creet. She  stayed  as  a  guest  in  rich  people's 
houses,  and  she  knew  that  she  was  being  watched 
like  a  rabbit  in  a  laboratory.  Covered  up  in  bed, 
with  the  lights  out,  she  thought  her  own  thoughts, 
and  laughed. 

This  summer  in  New  York  was  her  first  taste  of 

freedom.     The   Chicago  capitalist,  after  all  his 

arrangements  were  made   for  sailing,  had  been 

compelled  to  go  to  Mexico  to  look  after  oil  inter- 

—  41  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ests.  His  sister  knew  an  excellent  singing  master 
in  New  York.  Why  should  not  a  discreet,  well- 
balanced  girl  like  Miss  Bower  spend  the  summer 
there,  studying  quietly?  The  capitalist  suggested 
that  his  sister  might  enjoy  a  summer  on  Long  Is- 
land; he  would  rent  the  Griffith's  place  for  her, 
with  all  the  servants,  and  Eden  could  stay  there. 
But  his  sister  met  this  proposal  with  a  cold  stare. 
So  it  fell  out,  that  between  selfishness  and  greed, 
Eden  got  a  summer  all  her  own, —  which  really 
did  a  great  deal  toward  making  her  an  artist  and 
whatever  else  she  was  afterward  to  become.  She 
had  time  to  look  about,  to  .watch  without  being 
watched;  to  select  diamonds  in  one  window  and 
furs  in  another,  to  select  shoulders  and  moustaches 
in  the  big  hotels  where  she  went  to  lunch.  She 
had  the  easy  freedom  of  obscurity  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  power.  She  enjoyed  both.  She  was 
in  no  hurry. 

While  Eden  Bower  watched  the  pigeons,  Don 
Hedger  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  bolted  doors, 
looking  into  a  pool  of  dark  turpentine,  at  his  idle 
brushes,  wondering  why  a  woman  could  do  this 
to  him.  He,  too,  was  sure  of  his  future  and  knew 
that  he  was  a  chosen  man.  He  could  not  know,  of 
course,  that  he  was  merely  the  first  to  fall  under 
a  fascination  which  was  to  be  disastrous  to  a  few 
men  and  pleasantly  stimulating  to  many  thou- 
sands. Each  of  these  two  young  people  sensed 
—  42  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


the  future,  but  not  completely.  Don  Hedger 
knew  that  nothing  much  would  ever  happen  to 
him.  Eden  Bower  understood  that  to  her  a  great 
deal  would  happen.  But  she  did  not  guess  that 
her  neighbour  would  have  more  tempestuous  ad- 
ventures sitting  in  his  dark  studio  than  she  would 
find  in  all  the  capitals  of  Europe,  or  in  all  the 
latitude  of  conduct  she  was  prepared  to  permit 
herself. 


One  Sunday  morning  Eden  was  crossing  the 
Square  with  a  spruce  young  man  in  a  white  flannel 
suit  and  a  panama  hat.  They  had  been  break- 
fasting at  the  Brevoort  and  he  was  coaxing  her 
to  let  him  come  up  to  her  rooms  and  sing  for  an 
hour. 

"  No,  I've  got  to  write  letters.  You  must  run 
along  now.  I  see  a  friend  of  mine  over  there,  and 
I  want  to  ask  him  about  something  before  I 
go  up." 

"  That  fellow  with  the  dog?  Where  did  you 
pick  him  up?  "  the  young  man  glanced  toward  the 
seat  under  a  sycamore  where  Hedger  was  reading 
the  morning  paper. 

"  Oh,  he's  an  old  friend  from  the  West,"  said 

Eden  easily.     "  I  won't  introduce  you,  because  he 

doesn't  like  people.     He's  a  recluse.     Good-bye. 

I  can't  be  sure  about  Tuesday.     I'll  go  with  you 

—  43  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

if  I  have  time  after  my  lesson."  She  nodded,  left 
him,  and  went  over  to  the  seat  littered  with  news- 
papers. The  young  man  went  up  the  Avenue 
without  looking  back. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  today? 
Shampoo  this  animal  all  morning?"  Eden  en- 
quired teasingly. 

Hedger  made  room  for  her  on  the  seat. 
"  No,  at  twelve  o'clock  I'm  going  out  to  Coney 
Island.  One  of  my  models  is  going  up  in  a 
balloon  this  afternoon.  I've  often  promised  to 
go  and  see  her,  and  now  I'm  going." 

Eden  asked  if  models  usually  did  such  stunts. 
No,  Hedger  told  her,  but  Molly  Welch  added  to 
her  earnings  in  that  way.  "  I  believe,"  he  added, 
u  she  likes  the  excitement  of  it.  She's  got  a  good 
deal  of  spirit.  That's  why  I  like  to  paint  her. 
So  many  models  have  flaccid  bodies." 

"And  she  hasn't,  eh?  Is  she  the  one  who 
comes  to  see  you?  I  can't  help  hearing  her,  she 
talks  so  loud." 

"Yes,  she  has  a  rough  voice,  but  she's  a  fine 
girl.  I  don't  suppose  you'd  be  interested  in  go- 
ing?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  Eden  sat  tracing  patterns  on 
the  asphalt  with  the  end  of  her  parasol.  "  Is  it 
any  fun?  I  got  up  feeling  I'd  like  to  do  some- 
thing different  today.  It's  the  first  Sunday  I've 
not  had  to  sing  in  church.  I  had  that  engagement 
—  44  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


for  breakfast  at  the  Brevoort,  but  it  wasn't  very 
exciting.  That  chap  can't  talk  about  anything  but 
himself." 

Hedger  warmed  a  little.  "  If  you've  never 
been  to  Coney  Island,  you  ought  to  go.  It's  nice 
to  see  all  the  people;  tailors  and  bar-tenders  and 
prize-fighters  with  their  best  girls,  and  all  sorts  of 
folks  taking  a  holiday." 

Eden  looked  sidewise  at  him.  So  one  ought  to 
be  interested  in  people  of  that  kind,  ought  one? 
He  was  certainly  a  funny  fellow.  Yet  he  was 
never,  somehow,  tiresome.  She  had  seen  a  good 
deal  of  him  lately,  but  she  kept  wanting  to  know 
him  better,  to  find  out  what  made  him  different 
from  men  like  the  one  she  had  just  left  —  whether 
he  really  was  as  different  as  he  seemed.  "  I'll  go 
with  you,"  she  said  at  last,  "  if  you'll  leave  that  at 
home."  She  pointed  to  Caesar's  flickering  ears 
with  her  sunshade. 

"  But  he's  half  the  fun.  You'd  like  to  hear  him 
bark  at  the  waves  when  they  come  in." 

"  No,  I  wouldn't.  He's  jealous  and  disagreea- 
ble if  he  sees  you  talking  to  any  one  else.  Look  at 
him  now." 

"  Of  course,  if  you  make  a  face  at  him.  He 
knows  what  that  means,  and  he  makes  a  worse 
face.  He  likes  Molly  Welch,  and  she'll  be  dis- 
appointed if  I  don't  bring  him." 

Eden  said  decidedly  that  he  couldn't  take  both 

—  45  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

of  them.  So  at  twelve  o'clock  when  she  and 
Hedger  got  on  the  boat  at  Desbrosses  street, 
Caesar  was  lying  on  his  pallet,  with  a  bone. 

Eden  enjoyed  the  boat-ride.  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  been  on  the  water,  and  she  felt  as  if 
she  were  embarking  for  France.  The  light  warm 
breeze  and  the  plunge  of  the  waves  made  her  very 
wide  awake,  and  she  liked  crowds  of  any  kind. 
They  went  to  the  balcony  of  a  big,  noisy  restaur- 
ant and  had  a  shore  dinner,  with  tall  steins  of 
beer.  Hedger  had  got  a  big  advance  from  his 
advertising  firm  since  he  first  lunched  with  Miss 
Bower  ten  days  ago,  and  he  was  ready  for  any- 
thing. 

After  dinner  they  went  to  the  tent  behind  the 
bathing  beach,  where  the  tops  of  two  balloons 
bulged  out  over  the  canvas.  A  red-faced  man 
in  a  linen  suit  stood  in  front  of  the  tent,  shouting 
in  a  hoarse  voice  and  telling  the  people  that  if 
the  crowd  was  good  for  five  dollars  more,  a  beau- 
tiful young  woman  would  risk  her  life  for  their 
entertainment.  Four  little  boys  in  dirty  red  uni.- 
forms  ran  about  taking  contributions  in  their  pill- 
box hats.  One  of  the  balloons  was  bobbing  up 
and  down  in  its  tether  and  people  were  shoving 
forward  to  get  nearer  the  tent. 

14  Is  it  dangerous,  as  he  pretends?"  Eden 
asked. 

"  Molly  says  it's  simple  enough  if  nothing  goes 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


wrong  with  the  balloon.  Then  it  would  be  all 
over,  I  suppose. " 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  up  with  her?  " 

"I?  Of  course  not.  I'm  not  fond  of  taking 
foolish  risks." 

Eden  sniffed.  "  I  shouldn't  think  sensible  risks 
would  be  very  much  fun." 

Hedger  did  not  answer,  for  just  then  every  one 
began  to  shove  the  other  way  and  shout,  "  Look 
out.  There  she  goes!  "  and  a  band  of  six  pieces 
commenced  playing  furiously. 

As  the  balloon  rose  from  its  tent  enclosure,  they 
saw  a  girl  in  green  tights  standing  in  the  basket, 
holding  carelessly  to  one  of  the  ropes  with  one 
hand  and  with  the  other  waving  to  the  spectators. 
A  long  rope  trailed  behind  to  keep  the  balloon 
from  blowing  out  to  sea. 

As  it  soared,  the  figure  in  green  tights  in  the 
basket  diminished  to  a  mere  spot,  and  the  balloon 
itself,  in  the  brilliant  light,  looked  like  a  big  silver- 
grey  bat,  with  its  wings  folded.  When  it  began  to 
sink,  the  girl  stepped  through  the  hole  in  the 
basket  to  a  trapeze  that  hung  below,  and  grace- 
fully descended  through  the  air,  holding  to  the 
rod  with  both  hands,  keeping  her  body  taut  and 
her  feet  close  together.  The  crowd,  which  had 
grown  very  large  by  this  time,  cheered  vocifer- 
ously. The  men  took  off  their  hats  and  waved, 
little  boys  shouted,  and  fat  old  women,  shining 
—  47  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

with  the  heat  and  a  beer  lunch,  murmured  admir- 
ing comments  upon  the  balloonist's  figure. 
"  Beautiful  legs,  she  has !  " 

"  That's  so,"  Hedger  whispered.  "  Not  many 
girls  would  look  well  in  that  position."  Then,  for 
some  reason,  he  blushed  a  slow,  dark,  painful 
crimson. 

The  balloon  descended  slowly,  a  little  way  from 
the  tent,  and  the  red-faced  man  in  the  linen  suit 
caught  Molly  Welch  before  her  feet  touched  the 
ground,  and  pulled  her  to  one  side.  The  band 
struck  up  "  Blue  Bell  "  by  way  of  welcome,  and 
one  of  the  sweaty  pages  ran  forward  and  pre- 
sented the  balloonist  with  a  large  bouquet  of  arti- 
ficial flowers.  She  smiled  and  thanked  him,  and 
ran  back  across  the  sand  to  the  tent. 

"  Can't  we  go  inside  and  see  her?  "  Eden  asked. 
"  You  can  explain  to  the  door  man.  I  want  to 
meet  her."  Edging  forward,  she  herself  ad- 
dressed the  man  in  the  linen  suit  and  slipped  some- 
thing from  her  purse  into  his  hand. 

They  found  Molly  seated  before  a  trunk  that 
had  a  mirror  in  the  lid  and  a  u  make-up  "  outfit 
spread  upon  the  tray.  She  was  wiping  the  cold 
cream  and  powder  from  her  neck  with  a  discarded 
chemise. 

"  Hello,  Don,"  she  said  cordially.  "  Brought 
a  friend?" 

Eden  liked  her.  She  had  an  easy,  friendly 
—  48  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


manner,    and   there    was   something   boyish    and 
devil-may-care  about  her. 

"  Yes,  it's  fun.  I'm  mad  about  it,"  she  said  in 
reply  to  Eden's  questions.  "  I  always  want  to 
let  go,  when  I  come  down  on  the  bar.  You  don't 
feel  your  weight  at  all,  as  you  would  on  a  station- 
ary trapeze." 

The  big  drum  boomed  outside,  and  the  pub- 
licity man  began  shouting  to  newly  arrived  boat- 
loads. Miss  Welch  took  a  last  pull  at  her  cig- 
arette. "  Now  you'll  have  to  get  out,  Don.  I 
change  for  the  next  act.  This  time  I  go  up  in  a 
black  evening  dress,  and  lose  the  skirt  in  the  basket 
before  I  start  down." 

"  Yes,  go  along,"  said  Eden.  "  Wait  for  me 
outside  the  door.  I'll  stay  and  help  her  dress." 

Hedger  waited  and  waited,  while  women  of 
every  build  bumped  into  him  and  begged  his  par- 
don, and  the  red  pages  ran  about  holding  out 
their  caps  for  coins,  and  the  people  ate  and  per- 
spired and  shifted  parasols  against  the  sun. 
When  the  band  began  to  play  a  two-step,  all  the 
bathers  ran  up  out  of  the  surf  to  watch  the  ascent. 
The  second  balloon  bumped  and  rose,  and  the 
crowd  began  shouting  to  the  girl  in  a  black  evening 
dress  who  stood  leaning  against  the  ropes  and 
smiling.  "  It's  a  new  girl,"  they  called.  "  It 
ain't  the  Countess  this  time.  You're  a  peach, 
girlie!" 

—  49  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

The  balloonist  acknowledged  these  compli- 
ments, bowing  and  looking  down  over  the  sea  of 
upturned  faces, —  but  Hedger  was  determined  she 
should  not  see  him,  and  he  darted  behind  the  tent- 
fly.  He  was  suddenly  dripping  with  cold  sweat, 
his  mouth  was  full  of  the  bitter  taste  of  anger  and 
his  tongue  felt  stiff  behind  his  teeth.  Molly 
Welch,  in  a  shirt-waist  and  a  white  tam-o'-shanter 
cap,  slipped  out  from  the  tent  under  his  arm  and 
laughed  up  in  his  face.  "  She's  a  crazy  one  you 
brought  along.  She'll  get  what  she  wants !  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  settle  with  you,  all  right !  "  Hedger 
brought  out  with  difficulty. 

"  It's  not  my  fault,  Donnie.  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing with  her.  She  bought  me  off.  What's  the 
matter  with  you?  Are  you  soft  on  her?  She's 
safe  enough.  It's  as  easy  as  rolling  off  a  log,  if 
you  keep  cool."  Molly  Welch  was  rather  excited 
herself,  and  she  was  chewing  gum  at  a  high  speed 
as  she  stood  beside  him,  looking  up  at  the  floating 
silver  cone.  "  Now  watch,"  she  exclaimed*  sud- 
denly. "  She's  coming  down  on  the  bar.  I  ad- 
vised her  to  cut  that  out,  but  you  see  she  does  it 
first-rate.  And  she  got  rid  of  the  skirt,  too. 
Those  black  tights  show  off  her  legs  very  well. 
She  keeps  her  feet  together  like  I  told  her,  and 
makes  a  good  line  along  the  back.  See  the  light 
on  those  silver  slippers, —  that  was  a  good  idea 
—  50  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


I  had.  Come  along  to  meet  her.  Don't  be  a 
grouch;  she's  done  it  fine!  " 

Molly  tweaked  his  elbow,  and  then  left  him 
standing  like  a  stump,  while  she  ran  down  the 
beach  with  the  crowd. 

Though  Hedger  was  sulking,  his  eye  could  not 
help  seeing  the  low  blue  welter  of  the  sea,  the  ar- 
rested bathers,  standing  in  the  surf,  their  arms  and 
legs  stained  red  by  the  dropping  sun,  all  shading 
their  eyes  and  gazing  upward  at  the  slowly  fall- 
ing silver  star. 

Molly  Welch  and  the  manager  caught  Eden 
under  the  arms  and  lifted  her  aside,  a  red  page 
dashed  up  with  a  bouquet,  and  the  band  struck 
up  "  Blue  Bell."  Eden  laughed  and  bowed,  took 
Molly's  arm,  and  ran  up  the  sand  in  her  black 
tights  and  silver  slippers,  dodging  the  friendly 
old  women,  and  the  gallant  sports  who  wanted  to 
offer  their  homage  on  the  spot. 

When  she  emerged  from  the  tent,  dressed  in  her 
own  clothes,  that  part  of  the  beach  was  almost 
deserted.  She  stepped  to  her  companion's  side 
and  said  carelessly:  "Hadn't  we  better  try  to 
catch  this  boat?  I  hope  you're  not  sore  at  me. 
Really,  it  was  lots  of  fun." 

Hedger  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Yes,  we  have 
fifteen  minutes  to  get  to  the  boat,"  he  said  politely. 

As  they  walked  toward  the  pier,  one  of  the 
—  51  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

pages  ran  up  panting.  "  Lady,  you're  carrying 
oft  the  bouquet,"  he  said,  aggrievedly. 

Eden  stopped  and  looked  at  the  bunch  of  spotty 
cotton  roses  in  her  hand.  "  Of  course.  I  want 
them  for  a  souvenir.  You  gave  them  to  me  your- 
self." 

"  I  give  'em  to  you  for  looks,  but  you  can't  take 
'em  away.  They  belong  to  the  show." 

"  Oh,  you  always  use  the  same  bunch?  " 

"  Sure  we  do.  There  ain't  too  much  money  in 
this  business." 

She  laughed  and  tossed  them  back  to  him. 
"  Why  are  you  angry?  "  she  asked  Hedger.  "  I 
wouldn't  have  done  it  if  I'd  been  with  some  fel- 
lows, but  I  thought  you  were  the  sort  who  wouldn't 
mind.  Molly  didn't  for  a  minute  think  you 
would." 

"  What  possessed  you  to  do  such  a  fool  thing?  " 
he  asked  roughly. 

"  I  don't  know.  When  I  saw  her  coming 
down,  I  wanted  to  try  it.  It  looked  exciting. 
Didn't  I  hold  myself  as  well  as  she  did?  " 

Hedger  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  in  his  heart 
he  forgave  her. 

The  return  boat  was  not  crowded,  though  the 
boats  that  passed  them,  going  out,  were  packed 
to  the  rails.  The  sun  was  setting.  Boys  and 
girls  sat  on  the  long  benches  with  their  arms  about 
each  other,  singing.  Eden  felt  a  strong  wish  to 
—  52  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


propitiate  her  companion,  to  be  alone  with  him. 
She  had  been  curiously  wrought  up  by  her  balloon 
trip;  it  was  a  lark,  but  not  very  satisfying  unless 
one  came  back  to  something  after  the  flight.  She 
wanted  to  be  admired  and  adored.  Though  Eden 
said  nothing,  and  sat  with  her  arms  limp  on  the 
rail  in  front  of  her,  looking  languidly  at  the  rising 
silhouette  of  the  city  and  the  bright  path  of  the 
sun,  Hedger  felt  a  strange  drawing  near  to  her. 
If  he  but  brushed  her  white  skirt  with  his  knee, 
there  was  an  instant  communication  between  them, 
such  as  there  had  never  been  before.  They  did 
not  talk  at  all,  but  when  they  went  over  the  gang- 
plank she  took  his  arm  and  kept  her  shoulder  close 
to  his.  He  felt  as  if  they  were  enveloped  in  a 
highly  charged  atmosphere,  an  invisible  network 
of  subtle,  almost  painful  sensibility.  They  had 
somehow  taken  hold  of  each  other. 

An  hour  later,  they  were  dining  in  the  back 
garden  of  a  little  French  hotel  on  Ninth  Street, 
long  since  passed  away.  It  was  cool  and  leafy 
there,  and  the  mosquitoes  were  not  very  numerous. 
A  party  of  South  Americans  at  another  table  were 
drinking  champagne,  and  Eden  murmured  that 
she  thought  she  would  like  some,  if  it  were  not 
too  expensive.  "  Perhaps  it  will  make  me  think 
I  am  in  the  balloon  again.  That  was  a  very 
nice  feeling.  You've  forgiven  me,  haven't 


you?" 


—  53  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

Hedger  gave  her  a  quick  straight  look  from 
under  his  black  eyebrows,  and  something  went 
over  her  that  was  like  a  chill,  except  that  it  was 
warm  and  feathery.  She  drank  most  of  the  wine ; 
her  companion  was  indifferent  to  it.  He  was 
talking  more  to  her  tonight  than  he  had  ever  done 
before.  She  asked  him  about  a  new  picture  she 
had  seen  in  his  room;  a  queer  thing  full  of  stiff, 
supplicating  female  figures.  "  It's  Indian,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Yes.  I  call  it  Rain  Spirits,  or  maybe,  Indian 
Rain.  In  the  Southwest,  where  I've  been  a  good 
deal,  the  Indian  traditions  make  women  have  to 
do  with  the  rain-fall.  They  were  supposed  to 
control  it,  somehow,  and  to  be  able  to  find  springs, 
and  make  moisture  come  out  of  the  earth.  You 
see  I'm  trying  to  learn  to  paint  what  people  think 
and  feel;  to  get  away  from  all  that  photographic 
stuff.  When  I  look  at  you,  I  don't  see  what  a 
camera  would  see,  do  I?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?" 

"  Well,  if  I  should  paint  you,  I  could  make 
you  understand  what  I  see."  For  the  second  time 
that  day  Hedger  crimsoned  unexpectedly,  and  his 
eyes  fell  and  steadily  contemplated  a  dish  of  little 
radishes.  '  That  particular  picture  I  got  from  a 
story  a  Mexican  priest  told  me;  he  said  he  found 
it  in  an  old  manuscript  book  in  a  monastery  down 
there,  written  by  some  Spanish  Missionary,  who 
—  54  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


got  his  stories  from  the  Aztecs.  This  one  he 
called  '  The  Forty  Lovers  of  the  Queen,'  and  it 
was  more  or  less  about  rain-making." 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  tell  it  to  me?"  Eden 
asked. 

Hedger  fumbled  among  the  radishes.  "  I 
don't  know  if  it's  the  proper  kind  of  story  to  tell 
a  girl." 

She  smiled ;  "  Oh,  forget  about  that !  I've 
been  balloon  riding  today.  I  like  to  hear  you 
talk." 

Her  low  voice  was  flattering.  She  had  seemed 
like  clay  in  his  hands  ever  since  they  got  on  the 
boat  to  come  home.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
forgot  his  food,  and,  looking  at  her  intently,  be- 
gan to  tell  his  story,  the  theme  of  which  he  some- 
how felt  was  dangerous  tonight. 

The  tale  began,  he  said,  somewhere  in  Ancient 
Mexico,  and  concerned  the  daughter  of  a  king. 
The  birth  of  this  Princess  was  preceded  by  un- 
usual portents.  Three  times  her  mother  dreamed 
that  she  was  delivered  of  serpents,  which  betok- 
ened that  the  child  she  carried  would  have  power 
with  the  rain  gods.  The  serpent  was  the  symbol 
of  water.  The  Princess  grew  up  dedicated  to  the 
gods,  and  wise  men  taught  her  the  rain-making 
mysteries.  She  was  with  difficulty  restrained 
from  men  and  was  guarded  at  all  times,  for  it  was 
the  law  of  the  Thunder  that  she  be  maiden  until 

—  55  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

her  marriage.  In  the  years  of  her  adolescence, 
rain  was  abundant  with  her  people.  The  oldest 
man  could  not  remember  such  fertility.  When 
the  Princess  had  counted  eighteen  summers,  her 
father  went  to  drive  out  a  war  party  that  harried 
his  borders  on  the  north  and  troubled  his  pros- 
perity. The  King  destroyed  the  invaders  and 
brought  home  many  prisoners.  Among  the  pris- 
oners was,  a  young  chief,  taller  than  any  of  his 
captors,  of  such  strength  and  ferocity  that  the 
King's  people  came  a  day's  journey  to  look  at  him. 
When  the  Princess  beheld  his  great  stature,  and 
saw  that  his  arms  and  breast  were  covered  with 
the  figures  of  wild  animals,  bitten  into  the  skin 
and  coloured,  she  begged  his  life  from  her  father. 
She  desired  that  he  should  practise  his  art  upon 
her,  and  prick  upon  her  skin  the  signs  of  Rain  and 
Lightning  and  Thunder,  and  stain  the  wounds 
with  herb-juices,  as  they  were  upon  his  own  body. 
For  many  days,  upon  the  roof  of  the  King's  house, 
the  Princess  submitted  herself  to  the  bone  needle, 
and  the  women  with  her  marvelled  at  her  forti- 
tude. But  the  Princess  was  without  shame  before 
the  Captive,  and  it  came  about  that  he  threw  from 
him  his  needles  and  his  stains,  and  fell  upon  the 
Princess  to  violate  her  honour;  and  her  women 
ran  down  from  the  roof  screaming,  to  call  the 
guard  which  stood  at  the  gateway  of  the  King's 
house,  and  none  stayed  to  protect  their  mistress. 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


When  the  guard  came,  the  Captive  was  thrown 
into  bonds,  and  he  was  gelded,  and  his  tongue  was 
torn  out,  and  he  was  given  for  a  slave  to  the  Rain 
Princess. 

The  country  of  the  Aztecs  to  the  east  was  tor- 
mented by  thirst,  and  their  king,  hearing  much 
of  the  rain-making  arts  of  the  Princess,  sent  an 
embassy  to  her  father,  with  presents  and  an  offer 
of  marriage.  So  the  Princess  went  from  her  fa- 
ther to  be  the  Queen  of  the  Aztecs,  and  she  took 
with  her  the  Captive,  who  served  her  in  every- 
thing with  entire  fidelity  and  slept  upon  a  mat 
before  her  door. 

The  King  gave  his  bride  a  fortress  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  whither  she  retired  to  entreat 
the  rain  gods.  This  fortress  was  called  the 
Queen's  House,  and  on  the  night  of  the  new  moon 
the  Queen  came  to  it  from  the  palace.  But  when 
the  moon  waxed  and  grew  toward  the  round,  be- 
cause the  god  of  Thunder  had  had  his  will  of 
her,  then  the  Queen  returned  to  the  King. 
Drouth  abated  in  the  country  and  rain  fell 
abundantly  by  reason  of  the  Queen's  power  with 
the  stars. 

When  the  Queen  went  to  her  own  house  she 
took  with  her  no  servant  but  the  Captive,  and  he 
slept  outside  her  door  and  brought  her  food  after 
she  had  fasted.  The  Queen  had  a  jewel  of  great 
value,  a  turquoise  that  had  fallen  from  the  sun, 
—  57  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

and  had  the  image  of  the  sun  upon  it.  And  when 
she  desired  a  young  man  whom  she  had  seen  in 
the  army  or  among  the  slaves,  she  sent  the  Cap- 
tive to  him  with  the  jewel,  for  a  sign  that  he 
should  come  to  her  secretly  at  the  Queen's  House 
upon  business  concerning  the  welfare  of  all.  And 
some,  after  she  had  talked  with  them,  she  sent 
away  with  rewards;  and  some  she  took  into  her 
chamber  and  kept  them  by  her  for  one  night  or 
two.  Afterward  she  called  the  Captive  and  bade 
him  conduct  the  youth  by  the  secret  way  he  had 
come,  underneath  the  chambers  of  the  fortress. 
But  for  the  going  away  of  the  Queen's  lovers  the 
Captive  took  out  the  bar  that  was  beneath  a  stone 
in  the  floor  of  the  passage,  and  put  in  its  stead  a 
rush-reed,  and  the  youth  stepped  upon  it  and  fell 
through  into  a  cavern  that  was  the  bed  of  an  un- 
derground river,  and  whatever  was  thrown  into 
it  was  not  seen  again.  In  this  service  nor  in  any 
other  did  the  Captive  fail  the  Queen. 

But  when  the  Queen  sent  for  the  Captain  of 
the  Archers,  she  detained  him  four  days  in  her 
chamber,  calling  often  for  food  and  wine,  and 
was  greatly  content  with  him.  On  the  fourth  day 
she  went  to  the  Captive  outside  her  door  and  said : 
*  Tomorrow  take  this  man  up  by  the  sure  way,  by 
which  the  King  comes,  and  let  him  live." 

In  the  Queen's  door  were  arrows,  purple  and 
white.  When  she  desired  the  King  to  come  to  her 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


publicly,  with  his  guard,  she  sent  him  a  white 
arrow;  but  when  she  sent  the  purple,  he  came 
secretly,  and  covered  himself  with  his  mantle  to 
be  hidden  from  the  stone  gods  at  the  gate.  On 
the  fifth  night  that  the  Queen  was  with  her  lover, 
the  Captive  took  a  purple  arrow  to  the  King,  and 
the  King  came  secretly  and  found  them  together. 
He  killed  the  Captain  with  his  own  hand,  but  the 
Queen  he  brought  to  public  trial.  The  Captive, 
when  he  was  put  to  the  question,  told  on  his  fin- 
gers forty  men  that  he  had  let  through  the  under- 
ground passage  into  the  river.  The  Captive  and 
the  Queen  were  put  to  death  by  fire,  both  on  the 
same  day,  and  afterward  there  was  scarcity  of 
rain. 

Eden  Bower  sat  shivering  a  little  as  she  lis- 
tened. Hedger  was  not  trying  to  please  her, 
she  thought,  but  to  antagonize  and  frighten  her 
by  his  brutal  story.  She  had  often  told  herself 
that  his  lean,  big-boned  lower  jaw  was  like  his 
bull-dog's,  but  tonight  his  face  made  Caesar's  most 
savage  and  determined  expression  seem  an  affecta- 
tion. Now  she  was  looking  at  the  man  he  really 
was.  Nobody's  eyes  had  ever  defied  her  like  this. 
They  were  searching  her  and  seeing  everything; 
all  she  had  concealed  from  Livingston,  and  from 
the  millionaire  and  his  friends,  and  from  the  news- 
paper men.  He  was  testing  her,  trying  her  out, 

—  59  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

and  she  was  more  ill  at  ease  than  she  wished  to 
show. 

"  That's  quite  a  thrilling  story,"  she  said  at 
last,  rising  and  winding  her  scarf  about  her  throat. 
"  It  must  be  getting  late.  Almost  every  one  has 
gone." 

They  walked  down  the  Avenue  like  people  who 
have  quarrelled,  or  who  wish  to  get  rid  of  each 
other.  Hedger  did  not  take  her  arm  at  the  street 
crossings,  and  they  did  not  linger  in  the  Square. 
At  her  door  he  tried  none  of  the  old  devices  of 
the  Livingston  boys.  He  stood  like  a  post,  hav- 
ing forgotten  to  take  off  his  hat,  gave  her  a  harsh, 
threatening  glance,  muttered  "  goodnight,"  and 
shut  his  own  door  noisily. 

There  was  no  question  of  sleep  for  Eden 
Bower.  Her  brain  was  working  like  a  machine 
that  would  never  stop.  After  she  undressed,  she 
tried  to  calm  her  nerves  by  smoking  a  cigarette, 
lying  on  the  divan  by  the  open  window.  But  she 
grew  wider  and  wider  awake,  combating  the  chal- 
lenge that  had  flamed  all  evening  in  Hedger's 
eyes.  The  balloon  had  been  one  kind  of  ex- 
citement, the  wine  another;  but  the  thing  that 
had  roused  her,  as  a  blow  rouses  a  proud  man, 
was  the  doubt,  the  contempt,  the  sneering  hostility 
with  which  the  painter  had  looked  at  her  when 
he  told  his  savage  story.  Crowds  and  balloons 
were  all  very  well,  she  reflected,  but  woman's 
—  60  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


chief  adventure  is  man.  With  a  mind  over  active 
and  a  sense  of  life  over  strong,  she  wanted  to 
walk  across  the  roofs  in  the  starlight,  to  sail  over 
the  sea  and  face  at  once  a  world  of  which  she  had 
never  been  afraid. 

Hedger  must  be  asleep;  his  dog  had  stopped 
sniffing  under  the  double  doors.  Eden  put  on 
her  wrapper  and  slippers  and  stole  softly  down 
the  hall  over  the  old  carpet;  one  loose  board 
creaked  just  as  she  reached  the  ladder.  The  trap- 
door was  open,  as  always  on  hot  nights.  When 
she  stepped  out  on  the  roof  she  drew  a  long  breath 
and  walked  across  it,  looking  up  at  the  sky. 
Her  foot  touched  something  soft;  she  heard  a  low 
growl,  and  on  the  instant  Caesar's  sharp  little 
teeth  caught  her  ankle  and  waited.  His  breath 
was  like  steam  on  her  leg.  Nobody  had  ever  in- 
truded upon  his  roof  before,  and  he  panted  for 
the  movement  or  the  word  that  would  let  him 
spring  his  jaw.  Instead,  Hedger's  hand  seized 
his  throat. 

"  Wait  a  minute.  I'll  settle  with  him,"  he  said 
grimly.  He  dragged  the  dog  toward  the  man- 
hole and  disappeared.  When  he  came  back,  he 
found  Eden  standing  over  by  the  dark  chimney, 
looking  away  in  an  offended  attitude. 

"  I  caned  him  unmercifully,"  he  panted.     "  Of 
course  you  didn't  hear  anything;  he  never  whines 
when  I  beat  him.     He  didn't  nip  you,  did  he?  " 
—  61  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he  broke  the  skin  or 
not,"  she  answered  aggrievedly,  still  looking  off 
into  the  west. 

"  If  I  were  one  of  your  friends  in  white  pants, 
I'd  strike  a  match  to  find  whether  you  were  hurt, 
though  I  know  you  are  not,  and  then  I'd  see  your 
ankle,  wouldn't  I?" 

"  I  suppose  so." 

He  shook  his  head  and  stood  with  his  hands 
in  the  pockets  of  his  old  painting  jacket.  "  I'm 
not  up  to  such  boy-tricks.  If  you  want  the  place 
to  yourself,  I'll  clear  out.  There  are  plenty  of 
places  where  I  can  spend  the  night,  what's  left  of 
it.  But  if  you  stay  here  and  I  stay  here  — "  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Eden  did  not  stir,  and  she  made  no  reply.  Her 
head  drooped  slightly,  as  if  she  were  considering. 
But  the  moment  he  put  his  arms  about  her  they 
began  to  talk,  both  at  once,  as  people  do  in  an 
opera.  The  instant  avowal  brought  out  a  flood 
of  trivial  admissions.  Hedger  confessed  his 
crime,  was  reproached  and  forgiven,  and  now 
Eden  knew  what  it  was  in  his  look  that  she  had 
found  so  disturbing  of  late. 

Standing  against  the  black  chimney,  with  the 
sky  behind  and  blue  shadows  before,  they  looked 
like  one  of  Hedger's  own  paintings  of  that  period; 
two  figures,  one  white  and  one  dark,  and  nothing 
whatever  distinguishable  about  them  but  that  they 
—  62  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


were  male  and  female.  The  faces  were  lost,  the 
contours  blurred  in  shadow,  but  the  figures  were 
a  man  and  a  woman,  and  that  was  their  whole 
concern  and  their  mysterious  beauty, —  it  was  the 
rhythm  in  which  they  moved,  at  last,  along  the 
roof  and  down  into  the  dark  hole;  he  first,  draw- 
ing her  gently  after  him.  She  came  down  very 
slowly.  The  excitement  and  bravado  and  uncer- 
tainty of  that  long  day  and  night  seemed  all  at 
once  to  tell  upon  her.  When  his  feet  were  on  the 
carpet  and  he  reached  up  to  lift  her  down,  she 
twined  her  arms  about  his  neck  as  after  a  long 
separation,  and  turned  her  face  to  him,  and  her 
lips,  with  their  perfume  of  youth  and  passion. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  Hedger  was  sitting  in 
the  window  of  Eden's  music  room.  They  had 
been  watching  the  pigeons  come  wheeling  over  the 
roofs  from  their  unknown  feeding  grounds. 

"  Why,"  said  Eden  suddenly,  "  don't  we  fix 
those  big  doors  into  your  studio  so  they  will  open? 
Then,  if  I  want  you,  I  won't  have  to  go  through 
the  hall.  That  illustrator  is  loafing  about  a  good 
deal  of  late." 

u  I'll  open  them,  if  you  wish.  The  bolt  is  on 
your  side." 

"  Isn't  there  one  on  yours,  too?  " 

u  No.  I  believe  a  man  lived  there  for  years 
before  I  came  in,  and  the  nurse  used  to  have 

-63- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

these  rooms  herself.  Naturally,  the  lock  was  on 
the  lady's  side." 

Eden  laughed  and  began  to  examine  the  bolt. 
"  It's  all  stuck  up  with  paint."  Looking  about, 
her  eye  lighted  upon  a  bronze  Buddah  which  was 
one  of  the  nurse's  treasures.  Taking  him  by  his 
head,  she  struck  the  bolt  a  blow  with  his  squatting 
posteriors.  The  two  doors  creaked,  sagged,  and 
swung  weakly  inward  a  little  way,  as  if  they  were 
too  old  for  such  escapades.  Eden  tossed  the 
heavy  idol  into  a  stuffed  chair.  "  That's  bet- 
ter," she  exclaimed  exultantly.  "  So  the  bolts  are 
always  on  the  lady's  side?  What  a  lot  society 
takes  for  granted !  " 

Hedger  laughed,  sprang  up  and  caught  her 
arms  roughly.  '*  Whoever  takes  you  for 
granted —  Did  anybody,  ever?" 

"  Everybody  does.  That's  why  I'm  here. 
You  are  the  only  one  who  knows  anything  about 
me.  Now  I'll  have  to  dress  if  we're  going  out 
for  dinner." 

He  lingered,  keeping  his  hold  on  her.  l'  But 
I  won't  always  be  the  only  one,  Eden  Bower.  I 
won't  be  the  last." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  she  said  carelessly. 
"  But  what  does  that  matter?  You  are  the  first." 

As  a  long,  despairing  whine  broke  in  the  warm 
stillness,  they  drew  apart.  Caesar,  lying  on  his 
bed  in  the  dark  corner,  had  lifted  his  head  at  this 

—64— 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


invasion  of  sunlight,  and  realized  that  the  side  of 
his  room  was  broken  open,  and  his  whole  world 
shattered  by  change.  There  stood  his  master  and 
this  woman,  laughing  at  him!  The  woman  was 
pulling  the  long  black  hair  of  this  mightiest  of 
men,  who  bowed  his  head  and  permitted  it. 

VI 

In  time  they  quarrelled,  of  course,  and  about 
an  abstraction, —  as  young  people  often  do,  as 
mature  people  almost  never  do.  Eden  came  in 
late  one  afternoon.  She  had  been  with  some  of 
her  musical  friends  to  lunch  at  Burton  Ives'  studio, 
and  she  began  telling  Hedger  about  its  splen- 
dours. He  listened  a  moment  and  then  threw 
down  his  brushes.  "  I  know  exactly  what  it's 
like,"  he  said  impatiently.  "  A  very  good  depart- 
ment-store conception  of  a  studio.  It's  one  of  the 
show  places." 

"  Well,  it's  gorgeous,  and  he  said  I  could  bring 
you  to  see  him.  The  boys  tell  me  he's  awfully 
kind  about  giving  people  a  lift,  and  you  might  get 
something  out  of  it." 

Hedger  started  up  and  pushed  his  canvas  out 
of  the  way.  "  What  could  I  possibly  get  from 
Burton  Ives?  He's  almost  the  worst  painter  in 
the  world;  the  stupidest,  I  mean." 

Eden  was  annoyed.  Burton  Ives  had  been  very 
-65- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

nice  to  her  and  had  begged  her  to  sit  for  him. 
"  You  must  admit  that  he's  a  very  successful  one," 
she  said  coldly. 

"  Of  course  he  is !  Anybody  can  be  successful 
who  will  do  that  sort  of  thing.  I  wouldn't  paint 
his  pictures  for  all  the  money  in  New  York." 

"  Well,  I  saw  a  lot  of  them,  and  I  think  they 
are  beautiful." 

Hedger  bowed  stiffly. 

"  What's  the  use  of  being  a  great  painter  if 
nobody  knows  about  you?"  Eden  went  on  per- 
suasively. "  Why  don't  you  paint  the  kind  of 
pictures  people  can  understand,  and  then,  after 
you're  successful,  do  whatever  you  like?  " 

"  As  I  look  at  it,"  said  Hedger  brusquely,  "  I 
am  successful." 

Eden  glanced  about.  "  Well,  I  don't  see  any 
evidences  of  it,"  she  said,  biting  her  lip.  "  He 
has  a  Japanese  servant  and  a  wine  cellar,  and 
keeps  a  riding  horse." 

Hedger  melted  a  little.  "  My  dear,  I  have  the 
most  expensive  luxury  in  the  world,  and  I  am 
much  more  extravagant  than  Burton  Ives,  for  I 
work  to  please  nobody  but  myself." 

"  You  mean  you  could  make  money  and  don't  ? 
That  you  don't  try  to  get  a  public?  " 

"  Exactly.     A  public  only  wants  what  has  been 
done  over  and  over.     I'm  painting  for  painters, 
—  who  haven't  been  born." 
—  66  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


"  What  would  you  do  if  I  brought  Mr.  Ives 
down  here  to  see  your  things?  " 

"  Well,  for  God's  sake,  don't!  Before  he  left 
I'd  probably  tell  him  what  I  thought  of  him." 

Eden  rose.  u  I  give  you  up.  You  know  very 
well  there's  only  one  kind  of  success  that's  real." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  not  the  kind  you  mean.  So 
you've  been  thinking  me  a  scrub  painter,  who  needs 
a  helping  hand  from  some  fashionable  studio 
man?  What  the  devil  have  you  had  anything  to 
do  with  me  for,  then?  " 

"  There's  no  use  talking  to  you,"  said  Eden 
walking  slowly  toward  the  door.  "  I've  been  try- 
ing to  pull  wires  for  you  all  afternoon,  and  this 
is  what  it  comes  to."  She  had  expected  that  the 
tidings  of  a  prospective  call  from  the  great  man 
would  be  received  very  differently,  and  had  been 
thinking  as  she  came  home  in  the  stage  how,  as 
with  a  magic  wand,  she  might  gild  Hedger's  fu- 
ture, float  him  out  of  his  dark  hole  on  a  tide  of 
prosperity,  see  his  name  in  the  papers  and  his  pic- 
tures in  the  windows  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

Hedger  mechanically  snapped  the  midsummer 
leash  on  Caesar's  collar  and  they  ran  downstairs 
and  hurried  through  Sullivan  Street  off  toward  the 
river.  He  wanted  to  be  among  rough,  honest 
people,  to  get  down  where  the  big  drays  bumped 
over  stone  paving  blocks  and  the  men  wore  cord- 
uroy trowsers  and  kept  their  shirts  open  at  the 

-67- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

neck.  He  stopped  for  a  drink  in  one  of  the  sag- 
ging bar-rooms  on  the  water  front.  He  had 
never  in  his  life  been  so  deeply  wounded;  he  did 
not  know  he  could  be  so  hurt.  He  had  told  this 
girl  all  his  secrets.  On  the  roof,  in  these  warm, 
heavy  summer  nights,  with  her  hands  locked  in 
his,  he  had  been  able  to  explain  all  his  misty  ideas 
about  an  unborn  art  the  world  was  waiting  for; 
had  been  able  to  explain  them  better  than  he  had 
ever  done  to  himself.  And  she  had  looked  away 
to  the  chattels  of  this  uptown  studio  and  coveted 
them  for  him !  To  her  he  was  only  an  unsuccess- 
ful Burton  Ives. 

Then  why,  as  he  had  put  it  to  her,  did  she  take 
up  with  him?  Young,  beautiful,  talented  as  she 
was,  why  had  she  wasted  herself  on  a  scrub? 
Pity?  Hardly;  she  wasn't  sentimental.  There 
was  no  explaining  her.  But  in  this  passion  that 
had  seemed  so  fearless  and  so  fated  to  be,  his  own 
position  now  looked  to  him  ridiculous;  a  poor 
dauber  without  money  or  fame, —  it  was  her  ca- 
price to  load  him  with  favours.  Hedger  ground 
his  teeth  so  loud  that  his  dog,  trotting  beside  him, 
heard  him  and  looked  up. 

While  they  were  having  supper  at  the  oyster- 
man's,  he  planned  his  escape.  Whenever  he  saw 
her  again,  everything  he  had  told  her,  that  he 
should  never  have  told  any  one,  would  come  back 
to  him;  ideas  he  had  never  whispered  even  to 
—  68  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


the  painter  whom  he  worshipped  and  had  gone 
all  the  way  to  France  to  see.  To  her  they  must 
seem  his  apology  for  not  having  horses  and  a 
valet,  or  merely  the  puerile  boastfulness  of  a  weak 
man.  Yet  if  she  slipped  the  bolt  tonight  and 
came  through  the  doors  and  said,  "  Oh,  weak 
man,  I  belong  to  you !  "  what  could  he  do?  That 
was  the  danger.  He  would  catch  the  train  out 
to  Long  Beach  tonight,  and  tomorrow  he  would 
go  on  to  the  north  end  of  Long  Island,  where  an 
old  friend  of  his  had  a  summer  studio  among  the 
sand  dunes.  He  would  stay  until  things  came 
right  in  his  mind.  And  she  could  find  a  smart 
painter,  or  take  her  punishment. 

When  he  went  home,  Eden's  room  was  dark; 
she  was  dining  out  somewhere.  He  threw  his 
things  into  a  hold-all  he  had  carried  about  the 
world  with  him,  strapped  up  some  colours  and 
canvases,  and  ran  downstairs. 


VII 

Five  days  later  Hedger  was  a  restless  passenger 
on  a  dirty,  crowded  Sunday  train,  coming  back  to 
town.  Of  course  he  saw  now  how  unreasonable 
he  had  been  in  expecting  a  Huntington  girl  to 
know  anything  about  pictures;  here  was  a  whole 
continent  full  of  people  who  knew  nothing  about 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

pictures  and  he  didn't  hold  it  against  them. 
What  had  such  things  to  do  with  him  and  Eden 
Bower?  When  he  lay  out  on  the  dunes,  watch- 
ing the  moon  come  up  out  of  the  sea,  it  had  seemed 
to  him  that  there  was  no  wonder  in  the  world  like 
the  wonder  of  Eden  Bower.  He  was  going  back 
to  her  because  she  was  older  than  art,  because  she 
was  the  most  overwhelming  thing  that  had  ever 
come  into  his  life. 

He  had  written  her  yesterday,  begging  her  to 
be  at  home  this  evening,  telling  her  that  he  was 
contrite,  and  wretched  enough. 

Now  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  her,  his  stronger 
feeling  unaccountably  changed  to  a  mood  that  was 
playful  and  tender.  He  wanted  to  share  every- 
thing with  her,  even  the  most  trivial  things.  He 
wanted  to  tell  her  about  the  people  on  the 
train,  coming  back  tired  from  their  holiday  with 
bunches  of  wilted  flowers  and  dirty  daisies;  to  tell 
her  that  the  fish-man,  to  whom  she  had  often  sent 
him  for  lobsters,  was  among  the  passengers,  dis- 
guised in  a  silk  shirt  and  a  spotted  tie,  and  how  his 
wife  looked  exactly  like  a  fish,  even  to  her  eyes, 
on  which  cataracts  were  forming.  He  could  tell 
her,  too,  that  he  hadn't  as  much  as  unstrapped  his 
canvases, —  that  ought  to  convince  her. 

In  those  days  passengers  from  Long  Island 
came  into  New  York  by  ferry.  Hedger  had  to 
be  quick  about  getting  his  dog  out  of  the  express 
—  70  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


car  in  order  to  catch  the  first  boat.  The  East 
River,  and  the  bridges,  and  the  city  to  the  west, 
were  burning  in  the  conflagration  of  the  sunset; 
there  was  that  great  home-coming  reach  of  even- 
ing in  the  air. 

The  car  changes  from  Thirty-fourth  Street 
were  too  many  and  too  perplexing;  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Hedger  took  a  hansom  cab  for 
Washington  Square.  Caesar  sat  bolt  upright  on 
the  worn  leather  cushion  beside  him,  and  they 
jogged  off,  looking  down  on  the  rest  of  the  world. 

It  was  twilight  when  they  drove  down  lower 
Fifth  Avenue  into  the  Square,  and  through  the 
Arch  behind  them  were  the  two  long  rows  of 
pale  violet  lights  that  used  to  bloom  so  beautifully 
against  the  grey  stone  and  asphalt.  Here  and 
yonder  about  the  Square  hung  globes  that  shed  a 
radiance  not  unlike  the  blue  mists  of  evening, 
emerging  softly  when  daylight  died,  as  the  stars 
emerged  in  the  thin  blue  sky.  Under  them  the 
sharp  shadows  of  the  trees  fell  on  the  cracked 
pavement  and  the  sleeping  grass.  The  first  stars 
and  the  first  lights  were  growing  silver  against  the 
gradual  darkening,  when  Hedger  paid  his  driver 
and  went  into  the  house, —  which,  thank  God,  was 
still  there!  On  the  hall  table  lay  his  letter  of 
yesterday,  unopened. 

He  went  upstairs  with  every  sort  of  fear  and 
every  sort  of  hope  clutching  at  his  heart;  it  was 
—  71  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

as  if  tigers  were  tearing  him.  Why  was  there  no 
gas  burning  in  the  top  hall?  He  found  matches 
and  the  gas  bracket.  He  knocked,  but  got  no  an- 
swer; nobody  was  there.  Before  his  own  door 
were  exactly  five  bottles  of  milk,  standing  in  a 
row.  The  milk-boy  had  taken  spiteful  pleasure 
in  thus  reminding  him  that  he  forgot  to  stop  his 
order. 

Hedger  went  down  to  the  basement;  it,  too,  was 
dark.  The  janitress  was  taking  her  evening  air- 
ing on  the  basement  steps.  She  sat  waving  a 
palm-leaf  fan  majestically,  her  dirty  calico  dress 
open  at  the  neck.  She  told  him  at  once  that  there 
had  been  "  changes."  Miss  Bower's  room  was  to 
let  again,  and  the  piano  would  go  tomorrow. 
Yes,  she  left  yesterday,  she  sailed  for  Europe 
with  friends  from  Chicago.  They  arrived  on 
Friday,  heralded  by  many  telegrams.  Very  rich 
people  they  were  said  to  be,  though  the  man  had 
refused  to  pay  the  nurse  a  month's  rent  in  lieu 
of  notice, —  which  would  have  been  only  right,  as 
the  young  lady  had  agreed  to  take  the  rooms  until 
October.  Mrs.  Foley  had  observed,  too,  that 
he  didn't  overpay  her  or  Willy  for  their  trouble, 
and  a  great  deal  of  trouble  they  had  been  put  to, 
certainly.  Yes,  the  young  lady  was  very  pleas- 
ant, but  the  nurse  said  there  were  rings  on  the 
mahogany  table  where  she  had  put  tumblers  and 
wine  glasses.  It  was  just  as  well  she  was  gone. 
—  72  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


The  Chicago  man  was  uppish  in  his  ways,  but  not 
much  to  look  at.  She  supposed  he  had  poor 
health,  for  there  was  nothing  to  him  inside  his 
clothes. 

Hedger  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  —  never  had 
they  seemed  so  long,  or  his  legs  so  heavy.  The 
upper  floor  was  emptiness  and  silence.  He  un- 
locked his  room,  lit  the  gas,  and  opened  the  win- 
dows. When  he  went  to  put  his  coat  in  the 
closet,  he  found,  hanging  among  his  clothes,  a  pale, 
flesh-tinted  dressing  gown  he  had  liked  to  see  her 
wear,  with  a  perfume  —  oh,  a  perfume  that  was 
still  Eden  Bower !  He  shut  the  door  behind  him 
and  there,  in  the  dark,  for  a  moment  he  lost  his 
manliness.  It  was  when  he  held  this  garment  to 
him  that  he  found  a  letter  in  the  pocket. 

The  note  was  written  with  a  lead  pencil,  in 
haste :  She  was  sorry  that  he  was  angry,  but  she 
still  didn't  know  just  what  she  had  done.  She 
had  thought  Mr.  Ives  would  be  useful  to  him;  she 
guessed  he  was  too  proud.  She  wanted  awfully 
to  see  him  again,  but  Fate  came  knocking  at  her 
door  after  he  had  left  her.  She  believed  in  Fate. 
She  would  never  forget  him,  and  she  knew  he 
would  become  the  greatest  painter  in  the  world. 
Now  she  must  pack.  She  hoped  he  wouldn't  mind 
her  leaving  the  dressing  gown;  somehow,  she 
could  never  wear  it  again. 

After  Hedger  read  this,  standing  under  the  gas, 
—  73  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

he  went  back  into  the  closet  and  knelt  down  before 
the  wall;  the  knot  hole  had  been  plugged  up  with 
a  ball  of  wet  paper, —  the  same  blue  note-paper  on 
which  her  letter  was  written. 

He  was  hard  hit.  Tonight  he  had  to  bear  the 
loneliness  of  a  whole  lifetime.  Knowing  himself 
so  well,  he  could  hardly  believe  that  such  a  thing 
had  ever  happened  to  him,  that  such  a  woman  had 
lain  happy  and  contented  in  his  arms.  And  now 
it  was  over.  He  turned  out  the  light  and  sat 
down  on  his  painter's  stool  before  the  big  window. 
Caesar,  on  the  floor  beside  him,  rested  his  head  on 
his  master's  knee.  W&  must  leave  Hedger  thus, 
sitting  in  his  tank  with  his  dog,  looking  up  at  the 
stars. 

COMING,  APHRODITE  !  This  legend,  in  electric 
lights  over  the  Lexington  Opera  House,  had  long 
announced  the  return  of  Eden  Bower  to  New 
York  after  years  of  spectacular  success  in  Paris. 
She  came  at  last,  under  the  management  of  an 
American  Opera  Company,  but  bringing  her  own 
chef  d'orchestre. 

One  bright  December  afternoon  Eden  Bower 
was  going  down  Fifth  Avenue  in  her  car,  on  the 
way  to  her  broker,  in  Williams  Street.  Her 
thoughts  were  entirely  upon  stocks, —  Cerro  de 
Pasco,  and  how  much  she  should  buy  of  it, —  when 
she  suddenly  looked  up  and  realized  that  she  was 
—  74  — 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


skirting  Washington  Square.  She  had  not  seen 
the  place  since  she  rolled  out  of  it  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned four-wheeler  to  seek  her  fortune,  eighteen 
years  ago. 

"  Arretez,  Alphonse.  Attendez  moi,"  she 
called,  and  opened  the  door  before  he  could  reach 
it.  The  children  who  were  streaking  over  the 
asphalt  on  roller  skates  saw  a  lady  in  a  long  fur 
coat,  and  short,  high-heeled  shoes,  alight  from  a 
French  car  and  pace  slowly  about  the  Square, 
holding  her  muff  to  her  chin.  This  spot,  at  least, 
had  changed  very  little,  she  reflected;  the  same 
trees,  the  same  fountain,  the  white  arch,  and  over 
yonder,  Garibaldi,  drawing  the  sword  for  free- 
dom. There,  just  opposite  her,  was  the  old  red 
brick  house. 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  place,"  she  was  thinking.  "  I 
can  smell  the  carpets  now,  and  the  dog, —  what 
was  his  name  ?  That  grubby  bathroom  at  the  end 
of 'the  hall,  and  that  dreadful  Hedger  —  still, 
there  was  something  about  him,  you  know  — " 
She  glanced  up  and  blinked  against  the  sun. 
From  somewhere  in  the  crowded  quarter  south  of 
the  Square  a  flock  of  pigeons  rose,  wheeling 
quickly  upward  into  the  brilliant  blue  sky.  She 
threw  back  her  head,  pressed  her  muff  closer  to 
her  chin,  and  watched  them  with  a  smile  of  amaze- 
ment and  delight.  So  they  still  rose,  out  of  all 
that  dirt  and  noise  and  squalor,  fleet  and  silvery, 
—  75—  • 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

just  as  they  used  to  rise  that  summer  when  she 
was  twenty  and  went  up  in  a  balloon  on  Coney 
Island ! 

Alphonse  opened  the  door  and  tucked  her  robes 
about  her.  All  the  way  down  town  her  mind 
wandered  from  Cerro  de  Pasco,  and  she  kept 
smiling  and  looking  up  at  the  sky. 

When  she  had  finished  her  business  with  the 
broker,  she  asked  him  to  look  in  the  telephone 
book  for  the  address  of  M.  Gaston  Jules,  the  pic- 
ture dealer,  and  slipped  the  paper  on  which  he 
wrote  it  into  her  glove.  It  was  five  o'clock  when 
she  reached  the  French  Galleries,  as  they  were 
called.  On  entering  she  gave  the  attendant  her 
card,  asking  him  to  take  it  to  M.  Jules.  The 
dealer  appeared  very  promptly  and  begged  her  to 
come  into  his  private  office,  where  he  pushed  a 
great  chair  toward  his  desk  for  her  and  signalled 
his  secretary  to  leave  the  room. 

"  How  good  your  lighting  is  in  here/'  she  ob- 
served, glancing  about.  "  I  met  you  at  Simon's 
studio,  didn't  I?  Oh,  no!  I  never  forget  any- 
body who  interests  me."  She  threw  her  muff  on 
his  writing  table  and  sank  into  the  deep  chair. 
"  I  have  come  to  you  for  some  information  that's 
not  in  my  line.  Do  you  know  anything  about  an 
American  painter  named  Hedger?  " 

He  took  the  seat  opposite  her.  "  Don 
Hedger?  But,  certainly!  There  are  some  very 

-76- 


Coming,  Aphrodite! 


interesting  things  of  his  in  an  exhibition  at 
V 's.  If  you  would  care  to  — " 

She  held  up  her  hand.  "  No,  no.  I've  no  time 
to  go  to  exhibitions.  Is  he  a  man  of  any  im- 
portance? " 

"  Certainly.  He  is  one  of  the  first  men  among 
the  motiw-:.  That  is  to  say,  among  the  very 
moderns.  He  is  always  coming  up  with  some- 
thing different.  He  often  exhibits  in  Paris,  you 
must  have  seen  — " 

"  No,  I  tell  you  I  don't  go  to  exhibitions.  Has 
he  had  great  success?  That  is  what  I  want  to 
know." 

M.  Jules  pulled  at  his  short  grey  moustache. 
"  But,  Madame,  there  are  many  kinds  of  suc- 
cess," he  began  cautiously. 

Madame  gave  a  dry  laugh.  *  Yes,  so  he  used 
to  say.  We  once  quarrelled  on  that  issue.  And 
how  would  you  define  his  particular  kind?  " 

M.  Jules  grew  thoughtful.  "  He  is  a  great 
name  with  all  the  young  men,  and  he  is  decidedly 
an  influence  in  art.  But  one  can't  definitely  place 
a  man  who  is  original,  erratic,  and  who  is  changing 
all  the  time." 

She  cut  him  short.  "  Is  he  much  talked  about 
at  home?  In  Paris,  I  mean?  Thanks.  That's 
all  I  want  to  know."  She  rose  and  began  button- 
ing her  coat.  "  One  doesn't  like  to  have  been  an 
utter  fool,  even  at  twenty." 

—  77  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

"Mais,  non!  "  M.  Jules  handed  her  her  muff 
with  a  quick,  sympathetic  glance.  He  followed 
her  out  through  the  carpeted  show-room,  now 
closed  to  the  public  and  draped  in  cheesecloth,  and 
put  her  into  her  car  with  words  appreciative  of 
the  honour  she  had  done  him  in  calling. 

Leaning  back  in  the  cushions,  Eden  Bower 
closed  her  eyes,  and  her  face,  as  the  street  lamps 
flashed  their  ugly  orange  light  upon  it,  became 
hard  and  settled,  like  a  plaster  cast;  so  a  sail,  that 
has  been  filled  by  a  strong  breeze,  behaves  when 
the  wind  suddenly  dies.  Tomorrow  night  the 
wind  would  blow  again,  and  this  mask  would  be 
the  golden  face  of  Aphrodite.  But  a  u  big  "  ca- 
reer takes  its  toll,  even  with  the  best  of  luck. 


—  78  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 
i 

I  FIRST  became  aware  that  Cressida  Garnet 
was  on  board  when  I  saw  young  men  with 
cameras  going  up  to  the  boat  deck.  In  that 
exposed  spot  she  was  good-naturedly  posing  for 
them  —  amid  fluttering  lavender  scarfs  —  wear- 
ing a  most  unseaworthy  hat,  her  broad,  vigorous 
face  wreathed  in  smiles.  She  was  too  much  an 
American  not  to  believe  in  publicity.  All  ad- 
vertising was  good.  If  it  was  good  for  breakfast 
foods,  it  was  good  for  prime  donne, —  especially 
for  a  prima  donna  who  would  never  be  any 
younger  and  who  had  just  announced  her  intention 
of  marrying  a  fourth  time. 

Only  a  few  days  before,  when  I  was  lunching 
with  some  friends  at  Sherry's,  I  had  seen  Jerome 
Brown  come  in  with  several  younger  men,  looking 
so  pleased  and  prosperous  that  I  exclaimed  upon 
it. 

"  His  affairs,"  some  one  explained,  "  are  look- 
ing up.  He's  going  to  marry  Cressida  Garnet. 
Nobody  believed  it  at  first,  but  since  she  confirms 
—  79  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

it  he's  getting  all  sorts  of  credit.  That  woman's 
a  diamond  mine." 

If  there  was  ever  a  man  who  needed  a  diamond 
mine  at  hand,  immediately  convenient,  it  was 
Jerome  Brown.  But  as  an  old  friend  of  Cressida 
Garnet,  I  was  sorry  to  hear  that  mining  opera- 
tions were  to  be  begun  again. 

I  had  been  away  from  New  York  and  had  not 
seen  Cressida  for  a  year;  now  I  paused  on  the 
gangplank  to  note  how  very  like  herself  she  still 
was,  and  with  what  undiminished  zeal  she  went 
about  even  the  most  trifling  things  that  pertained 
to  her  profession.  From  that  distance  I  could 
recognize  her  "  carrying  "  smile,  and  even  what, 
in  Columbus,  we  used  to  call  "  the  Garnet  look." 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairway  leading  up  to  the 
boat  deck  stood  two  of  the  factors  in  Cressida's 
destiny.  One  of  them  was  her  sister,  Miss  Julia; 
a  woman  of  fifty  with  a  relaxed,  mournful  face, 
an  ageing  skin  that  browned  slowly,  like  meer- 
chaum,  and  the  unmistakable  "  look  "  by  which 
one  knew  a  Garnet.  Beside  her,  pointedly  ignor- 
ing her,  smoking  a  cigarette  while  he  ran  over  the 
passenger  list  with  supercilious  almond  eyes,  stood 
a  youth  in  a  pink  shirt  and  a  green  plush  hat,  hold- 
ing a  French  bull-dog  on  the  leash.  This  was 
"  Horace,"  Cressida's  only  son.  He,  at  any  rate, 
had  not  the  Garnet  look.  He  was  rich  and 
ruddy,  indolent  and  insolent,  with  soft  oval  cheeks 
—  80—1 


The  Diamond  Mine 


and  the  blooming  complexion  of  twenty-two. 
There  was  the  beginning  of  a  silky  shadow  oniiis 
upper  lip.  He  seemed  like  a  ripe  fruit  grown 
out  of  a  rich  soil;  "  oriental,"  his  mother  called 
his  peculiar  lusciousness.  His  aunt's  restless  and 
aggrieved  glance  kept  flecking  him  from  the  side, 
but  the  two  were  as  motionless  as  the  bouledogue, 
standing  there  on  his  bench  legs  and  surveying 
his  travelling  basket  with  loathing.  They  were 
waiting,  in  constrained  immobility,  for  Cressida  to 
descend  and  reanimate  them, —  will  them  to  do 
or  to  be  something.  Forward,  by  the  rail,  I  saw 
the  stooped,  eager  back  for  which  I  was  uncon- 
sciously looking:  Miletus  Poppas,  the  Greek  Jew, 
Cressida's  accompanist  and  shadow.  We  were 
all  there,  I  thought  with  a  smile,  except  Jerome 
Brown. 

The  first  member  of  Cressida's  party  with 
whom  I  had  speech  was  Mr.  Poppas.  When  we 
were  two  hours  out  I  came  upon  him  in  the  act  of 
dropping  overboard  a  steamer  cushion  made  of 
American  flags.  Cressida  never  sailed,  I  think, 
that  one  of  these  vivid  comforts  of  travel  did  not 
reach  her  at  the  dock.  Poppas  recognized  me 
just  as  the  striped  object  left  his  hand.  He  was 
standing  with  his  arm  still  extended  over  the  rail, 
his  fingers  contemptuously  sprung  back.  u  Lest 
we  forgedt !  "  he  said  with  a  shrug.  "  Does 
Madame  Cressida  know  we  are  to  have  the  pleas- 
—  81  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ure  of  your  company  for  this  voyage?"  He 
spoke  deliberate,  grammatical  English  —  he  de- 
spised the  American  rendering  of  the  language  — 
but  there  was  an  indescribably  foreign  quality  in 
his  voice, —  a  something  muted;  and  though  he 
aspirated  his  u  th's "  with  such  conscientious 
thoroughness,  there  was  always  the  thud  of  a 
"  d "  in  them.  Poppas  stood  before  me  in  a 
short,  tightly  buttoned  grey  coat  and  cap,  exactly 
the  colour  of  his  greyish  skin  and  hair  and  waxed 
moustache ;  a  monocle  on  a  very  wide  black  ribbon 
dangled  over  his  chest.  As  to  his  age,  I  could 
not  offer  a  conjecture.  In  the  twelve  years  I  had 
known  his  thin  lupine  face  behind  Cressida's 
shoulder,  it  had  not  changed.  I  was  used  to  his 
cold,  supercilious  manner,  to  his  alarming,  deep- 
set  eyes, —  very  close  together,  in  colour  a  yellow- 
ish green,  and  always  gleaming  with  something 
like  defeated  fury,  as  if  he  were  actually  on  the 
point  of  having  it  out  with  you,  or  with  the  world, 
at  last. 

I  asked  him  if  Cressida  had  engagements  in 
London. 

"  Quite  so;  the  Manchester  Festival,  some  con- 
certs at  Queen's  Hall,  and  the  Opera  at  Covent 
Garden;  a  rather  special  production  of  the  operas 
of  Mozart.  That  she  can  still  do  quite  well, — 
which  is  not  at  all,  of  course,  what  we  might  have 
expected,  and  only  goes  to  show  that  our  Madame 
—  82  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


Cressida  is  now,  as  always,  a  charming  exception 
to  rules. "  Poppas'  tone  about  his  client  was  con- 
sistently patronizing,  and  he  was  always  trying 
to  draw  one  into  a  conspiracy  of  two,  based  on  a 
mutual  understanding  of  her  shortcomings. 

I  approached  him  on  the  one  subject  I  could 
think  of  which  was  more  personal  than  his  use- 
fulness to  Cressida,  and  asked  him  whether  he 
still  suffered  from  facial  neuralgia  as  much  as  he 
had  done  in  former  years,  and  whether  he  was 
therefore  dreading  London,  where  the  climate 
used  to  be  so  bad  for  him. 

"  And  is  still,"  he  caught  me  up,  u  And  is  still! 
For  me  to  go  to  London  is  martyrdom,  chere 
Madame.  In  New  York  it  is  bad  enough,  but  in 
London  it  is  the  auto  da  fe,  nothing  less.  My 
nervous  system  is  exotic  in  any  country  washed  by 
the  Atlantic  ocean,  and  it  shivers  like  a  little  hair- 
less dog  from  Mexico.  It  never  relaxes.  I 
think  I  have  told  you  about  my  favourite  city  in 
the  middle  of  Asia,  la  sainte  Asiey  where  the  rain- 
fall is  absolutely  nil,  and  you  are  protected  on 
every  side  by  hundreds  of  metres  of  warm,  dry 
sand.  I  was  there  when  I  was  a  child  once,  and 
it  is  still  my  intention  to  retire  there  when  I  have 
finished  with  all  this.  I  would  be  there  now, 
n-ow-ow,"  his  voice  rose  querulously,  "  if  Madame 
Cressida  did  not  imagine  that  she  needs  me, —  and 
her  fancies,  you  know,"  he  flourished  his  hands, 

-83-. 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

"  one  gives  in  to  them.  In  humouring  her  ca- 
prices you  and  I  have  already  played  some  to- 
gether." 

We  were  approaching  Cressida's  deck  chairs, 
ranged  under  the  open  windows  of  her  stateroom. 
She  was  already  recumbent,  swathed  in  lavender 
scarfs  and  wearing  purple  orchids  —  doubtless 
from  Jerome  Brown.  At  her  left,  Horace  had 
settled  down  to  a  French  novel,  and  Julia  Garnet, 
at  her  right,  was  complainingly  regarding  the  grey 
horizon.  On  seeing  me,  Cressida  struggled  un- 
der her  fur-lined  robes  and  got  to  her  feet, — 
which  was  more  than  Horace  or  Miss  Julia  man- 
aged to  do.  Miss  Julia,  as  I  could  have  fore- 
told, was  not  pleased.  All  the  Garnets  had  an 
awkward  manner  with  me.  Whether  it  was  that 
I  reminded  them  of  things  they  wished  to  forget, 
or  whether  they  thought  I  esteemed  Cressida  too 
highly  and  the  rest  of  them  too  lightly,  I  do  not 
know;  but  my  appearance  upon  their  scene  always 
put  them  greatly  on  their  dignity.  After  Horace 
had  offered  me  his  chair  and  Miss  Julia  had  said 
doubtfully  that  she  thought  I  was  looking  rather 
better  than  when  she  last  saw  me,  Cressida  took 
my  arm  and  walked  me  off  toward  the  stern. 

"  Do  you  know,  Carrie,  I  half  wondered 
whether  I  shouldn't  find  you  here,  or  in  London, 
because  you  always  turn  up  at  critical  moments 
in  my  life."  She  pressed  my  arm  confidentially, 

—  84— 


The  Diamond  Mine 


and  I  felt  that  she  was  once  more  wrought  up  to 
a  new  purpose.  I  told  her  that  I  had  heard  some 
rumour  of  her  engagement. 

"  It's  quite  true,  and  it's  all  that  it  should  be," 
she  reassured  me.  "  I'll  tell  you  about  it  later, 
and  you'll  see  that  it's  a  real  solution.  They  are 
against  me,  of  course, —  all  except  Horace.  He 
has  been  such  a  comfort." 

Horace's  support,  such  as  it  was,  could  always 
be  had  in  exchange  for  his  mother's  signature,  I 
suspected.  The  pale  May  day  had  turned  bleak 
and  chilly,  and  we  sat  down  by  an  open  hatchway 
which  emitted  warm  air  from  somewhere  below. 
At  this  close  range  I  studied  Cressida's  face,  and 
felt  reassured  of  her  unabated  vitality;  the  old 
force  of  will  was  still  there,  and  with  it  her  char- 
acteristic optimism,  the  old  hope  of  a  "  solution." 

"  You  have  been  in  Columbus  lately?  "  she  was 
saying.  "  No,  you  needn't  tell  me  about  it,"  with 
a  sigh.  "  Why  is  it,  Caroline,  that  there  is  so  lit- 
tle of  my  life  I  would  be  willing  to  live  over  again  ? 
So  little  that  I  can  even  think  of  without  depres- 
sion. Yet  I've  really  not  such  a  bad  conscience. 
It  may  mean  that  I  still  belong  to  the  future  more 
than  to  the  past,  do  you  think?  " 

My  assent  was  not  warm  enough  to  fix  her  atten- 
tion, and  she  went  on  thoughtfully:  "  Of  course, 
it  was  a  bleak  country  and  a  bleak  period.  But 
I've  sometimes  wondered  whether  the  bleakness 

—85  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

may  not  have  been  in  me,  too;  for  it  has  certainly 
followed  me.  There,  that  is  no  way  to  talk !  " 
she  drew  herself  up  from  a  momentary  attitude  of 
dejection.  "  Sea  air  always  lets  me  down  at  first. 
That's  why  it's  so  good  for  me  in  the  end." 

"  I  think  Julia  always  lets  you  down,  too," 
I  said  bluntly.  "  But  perhaps  that  depression 
works  out  in  the  same  way." 

Cressida  laughed.  "  Julia  is  rather  more  de- 
pressing than  Georgie,  isn't  she?  But  it  was 
Julia's  turn.  I  can't  come  alone,  and  they've 
grown  to  expect  it.  They  haven't,  either  of  them, 
much  else  to  expect." 

At  this  point  the  deck  steward  approached  us 
with  a  blue  envelope.  "  A  wireless  for  you,  Ma- 
dame Garnet." 

Cressida  put  out  her  hand  with  impatience, 
thanked  him  graciously,  and  with  every  indication 
of  pleasure  tore  open  the  blue  envelope.  "  It's 
from  Jerome  Brown,"  she  said  with  some  con- 
fusion, as  she  folded  the  paper  small  and  tucked 
it  between  the  buttons  of  her  close-fitting  gown, 
"  Something  he  forgot  to  tell  me.  How  long 
shall  you  be  in  London?  Good;  I  want  you  to 
meet  him.  We  shall  probably  be  married  there 
as  soon  as  my  engagements  are  over."  She  rose. 
"  Now  I  must  write  some  letters.  Keep  two 
places  at  your  table,  so  that  I  can  slip  away  from 
my  party  and  dine  with  you  sometimes." 
—  86  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


I  walked  with  her  toward  her  chair,  in  which 
Mr.  Poppas  was  now  reclining.  He  indicated  his 
readiness  to  rise,  but  she  shook  her  head  and  en- 
tered the  door  of  her  deck  suite.  As  she  passed 
him,  his  eye  went  over  her  with  assurance  until  it 
rested  upon  the  folded  bit  of  blue  paper  in  her 
corsage.  He  must  have  seen  the  original  rec- 
tangle in  the  steward's  hand;  having  found  it 
again,  he  dropped  back  between  Horace  and  Miss 
Julia,  whom  I  think  he  disliked  no  more  than  he 
did  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  liked  Julia  quite 
as  well  as  he  liked  me,  and  he  liked  me  quite  as 
well  as  he  liked  any  of  the  women  to  whom  he 
would  be  fitfully  agreeable  upon  the  voyage. 
Once  or  twice,  during  each  crossing,  he  did  his 
best  and  made  himself  very  charming  indeed,  to 
keep  his  hand  in, —  for  the  same  reason  that  he 
kept  a  dummy  keyboard  in  his  stateroom,  some- 
where down  in  the  bowels  of  the  boat.  He  prac- 
tised all  the  small  economies;  paid  the  minimum 
rate,  and  never  took  a  deck  chair,  because,  as 
Horace  was  usually  in  the  cardroom,  he  could  sit 
in  Horace's. 

The  three  of  them  lay  staring  at  the  swell  which 
was  steadily  growing  heavier.  Both  men  had 
covered  themselves  with  rugs,  after  dutifully 
bundling  up  Miss  Julia.  As  I  walked  back  and 
forth  on  the  deck,  I  was  struck  by  their  various 
degrees  of  in-expressiveness.  Opaque  brown 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

eyes,  almond-shaped  and  only  half  open;  wolfish 
green  eyes,  close-set  and  always  doing  something, 
with  a  crooked  gleam  boring  in  this  direction  or 
in  that;  watery  grey  eyes,  like  the  thick  edges  of 
broken  skylight  glass:  I  would  have  given  a 
great  deal  to  know  what  was  going  on  behind  each 
pair  of  them. 

These  three  were  sitting  there  in  a  row  because 
they  were  all  woven  into  the  pattern  of  one  large 
and  rather  splendid  life.  Each  had  a  bond,  and 
each  had  a  grievance.  If  they  could  have  their 
will,  what  would  they  do  with  the  generous,  cred- 
ulous creature  who  nourished  them,  I  wondered? 
How  deep  a  humiliation  would  each  egotism  ex- 
act? They  would  scarcely  have  harmed  her  in 
fortune  or  in  person  (though  I  think  Miss  Julia 
looked  forward  to  the  day  when  Cressida  would 
"  break  "  and  could  be  mourned  over), —  but  the 
fire  at  which  she  warmed  herself,  the  little  secret 
hope, —  the  illusion,  ridiculous  or  sublime,  which 
kept  her  going, —  that  they  would  have  stamped 
out  on  the  instant,  with  the  whole  Garnet  pack 
behind  them  to  make  extinction  sure.  All,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  Miletus  Poppas.  He  was  a  vulture 
of  the  vulture  race,  and  he  had  the  beak  of  one. 
But  I  always  felt  that  if  ever  he  had  her  thus  at 
his  mercy, —  if  ever  he  came  upon  the  softness  that 
was  hidden  under  so  much  hardness,  the  warm 
credulity  under  a  life  so  dated  and  scheduled  and 
—  88  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


"  reported  "   and  generally  exposed, —  he  would 
hold  his  hand  and  spare. 

The  weather  grew  steadily  rougher.  Miss 
Julia  at  last  plucked  Poppas  by  the  sleeve  and  in- 
dicated that  she  wished  to  be  released  from  her 
wrappings.  When  she  disappeared,  there  seemed 
to  be  every  reason  to  hope  that  she  might  be  off 
the  scene  for  awhile.  As  Cressida  said,  if  she 
had  not  brought  Julia,  she  would  have  had  to 
bring  Georgie,  or  some  other  Garnet.  Cressida's 
family  was  like  that  of  the  unpopular  Prince  of 
Wales,  of  whom,  when  he  died,  some  wag  wrote : 

//  it  had  been  his  brother, 
Better  him  than  another. 
If  it  had  been  his  sisterf 
No  one  would  have  jnissed  her. 

Miss  Julia  was  dampening  enough,  but  Miss 
Georgie  was  aggressive  and  intrusive.  She  was 
out  to  prove  to  the  world,  and  more  especially 
to  Ohio,  that  all  the  Garnets  were  as  like  Cres- 
sida as  two  peas.  Both  sisters  were  club-women, 
social  service  workers,  and  directors  in  musical  so- 
cieties, and  they  were  continually  travelling  up  and 
down  the  Middle  West  to  preside  at  meetings  or 
to  deliver  addresses.  They  reminded  one  of  two 
sombre,  bumping  electrics,  rolling  about  with  no 
visible  means  of  locomotion,  always  running  out  of 
power  and  lying  beached  in  some  inconvenient  spot 

—  89— 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

until  they  received  a  check  or  a  suggestion  from 
Gressy.  I  was  only  too  well  acquainted  with  the 
strained,  anxious  expression  that  the  sight  of  their 
handwriting  brought  to  Cressida's  face  when  she 
ran  over  her  morning  mail  at  breakfast.  She 
usually  put  their  letters  by  to  read  "  when  she  was 
feeling  up  to  it  "  and  hastened  to  open  others 
which  might  possibly  contain  something  gracious 
or  pleasant.  Sometimes  these  family  unburden- 
ings  lay  about  unread  for  several  days.  Any 
other  letters  would  have  got  themselves  lost,  but 
these  bulky  epistles,  never  properly  fitted  to  their 
envelopes,  seemed  immune  to  mischance  and  un- 
failingly disgorged  to  Cressida  long  explanations 
as  to  why  her  sisters  had  to  do  and  to  have  certain 
things  precisely  upon  her  account  and  because  she 
was  so  much  a  public  personage. 

The  truth  was  that  all  the  Garnets,  and  par- 
ticularly her  two  sisters,  were  consumed  by  an 
habitual,  bilious,  unenterprising  envy  of  Cressy. 
They  never  forgot  that,  no  matter  what  she  did 
for  them  or  how  far  she  dragged  them  about  the 
world  with  her,  she  would  never  take  one  of  them 
to  live  with  her  in  her  Tenth  Street  house  in  New 
York.  They  thought  that  was  the  thing  they 
most  wanted.  But  what  they  wanted,  in  the  last 
analysis,  was  to  be  Cressida.  For  twenty  years 
she  had  been  plunged  in  struggle ;  fighting  for  her 
life  at  first,  then  for  a  beginning,  for  growth,  and 
—  90  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


at  last  for  eminence  and  perfection;  fighting  in 
the  dark,  and  afterward  in  the  light, —  which,  with 
her  bad  preparation,  and  with  her  uninspired 
youth  already  behind  her,  took  even  more  courage. 
During  those  twenty  years  the  Garnets  had  been 
comfortable  and  indolent  and  vastly  self-satisfied; 
and  now  they  expected  Cressida  to  make  them 
equal  sharers  in  the  finer  rewards  of  her  struggle. 
When  her  brother  Buchanan  told  me  he  thought 
Cressida  ought  "  to  make  herself  one  of  them,1' 
he  stated  the  converse  of  what  he  meant.  They 
coveted  the  qualities  which  had  made  her  success, 
as  well  as  the  benefits  which  came  from  it.  More 
than  her  furs  or  her  fame  or  her  fortune,  they 
wanted  her  personal  effectiveness,  her  brighter 
glow  and  stronger  will  to  live. 

"  Sometimes,"  I  have  heard  Cressida  say,  look- 
ing up  from  a  bunch  of  those  sloppily  written  let- 
ters, "  sometimes  I  get  discouraged." 

For  several  days  the  rough  weather  kept  Miss 
Julia  cloistered  in  Cressida's  deck  suite  with  the 
maid,  Luisa,  who  confided  to  me  that  the  Signorina 
Garnet  was  "  difcile."  After  dinner  I  usually 
found  Cressida  unincumbered,  as  Horace  was  al- 
ways in  the  cardroom  and  Mr.  Poppas  either 
nursed  his  neuralgia  or  went  through  the  exercise 
of  making  himself  interesting  to  some  one  of  the 
young  women  on  board.  One  evening,  the  third 
night  out,  when  the  sea  was  comparatively  quiet 
—  91  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

and  the  sky  was  full  of  broken  black  clouds, 
silvered  by  the  moon  at  their  ragged  edges,  Cres- 
sida  talked  to  me  about  Jerome  Brown. 

I  had  known  each  of  her  former  husbands. 
The  first  one,  Charley  Wilton,  Horace's  father, 
was  my  cousin.  He  was  organist  in  a  church  in 
Columbus,  and  Cressida  married  him  when  she 
was  nineteen.  He  died  of  tuberculosis  two  years 
after  Horace  was  born.  Cressida  nursed  him 
through  a  long  illness  and  made  the  living  besides. 
Her  courage  during  the  three  years  of  her  first 
marriage  was  fine  enough  to  foreshadow  her  fu- 
ture to  any  discerning  eye,  and  it  had  made  me 
feel  that  she  deserved  any  number  of  chances  at 
marital  happiness.  There  had,  of  course,  been  a 
particular  reason  for  each  subsequent  experiment, 
and  a  sufficiently'alluring  promise  of  success.  Her 
motives,  in  the  case  of  Jerome  Brown,  seemed  to 
me  more  vague  and  less  convincing  than  those 
which  she  had  explained  to  me  on  former  occa- 
sions. 

"  It's  nothing  hasty,"  she  assured  me.  "  It's 
been  coming  on  for  several  years.  He  has  never 
pushed  me,  but  he  was  always  there  —  some  one 
to  count  on.  Even  when  I  used  to  meet  him  at 
the  Whitings,  while  I  was  still  singing  at  the 
Metropolitan,  I  always  felt  that  he  was  different 
from  the  others;  that  if  I  were  in  straits  of  any 
kind,  I  could  call  on  him.  You  can't  know  what 
—  92  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


that  feeling  means  to  me,  Carrie.  If  you  look 
back,  you'll  see  it's  something  I've  never  had." 

I  admitted  that,  in  so  far  as  I  knew,  she  had 
never  been  much  addicted  to  leaning  on  people. 

"  I've  never  had  any  one  to  lean  on,"  she  said 
with  a  short  laugh.  Then  she  went  on,  quite 
seriously:  "  Somehow,  my  relations  with  people 
always  become  business  relations  in  the  end.  I 
suppose  it's  because, —  except  for  a  sort  of  pro- 
fessional personality,  which  I've  had  to  get,  just 
as  I've  had  to  get  so  many  other  things, —  I've 
not  very  much  that's  personal  to  give  people. 
I've  had  to  give  too  much  else.  I've  had  to  try 
too  hard  for  people  who  wouldn't  try  at  all." 

"  Which,"  I  put  in  firmly,  u  has  done  them  no 
good,  and  has  robbed  the  people  who  really  cared 
about  you." 

"  By  making  me  grubby,  you  mean?  " 

"  By  making  you  anxious  and  distracted  so  much 
of  the  time;  empty." 

She  nodded  mournfully.  "  Yes,  I  know.  You 
used  to  warn  me.  Well,  there's  not  one  of  my 
brothers  and  sisters  who  does  not  feel  that  I 
carried  off  the  family  success,  just  as  I  might  have 
carried  off  the  family  silver, —  if  there'd  been 
any !  They  take  the  view  that  there  were  just 
so  many  prizes  in  the  bag;  I  reached  in  and  took 
them,  so  there  were  none  left  for  the  others.  At 
my  age,  that's  a  dismal  truth  to  waken  up  to," 

—  93  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

Cressida  reached  for  my  hand  and  held  it  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  she  needed  courage  to  face  the  facts 
in  her  case.  "  When  one  remembers  one's  first 
success;  how  one  hoped  to  go  home  like  a  Christ- 
mas tree  full  of  presents  —  How  much  one 
learns  in  a  life-time !  That  year  when  Horace 
was  a  baby  and  Charley  was  dying,  and  I  was  tour- 
ing the  West  with  the  Williams  band,  it  was  my 
feeling  about  my  own  people  that  made  me  go  at 
all.  Why  I  didn't  drop  myself  into  one  of  those 
muddy  rivers,  or  turn  on  the  gas  in  one  of  those 
dirty  hotel  rooms,  I  don't  know  to  this  day.  At 
twenty-two  you  must  hope  for  something  more 
than  to  be  able  to  bury  your  husband  decently,  and 
what  I  hoped  for  was  to  make  my  family  happy. 
It  was  the  same  afterward  in  Germany.  A  young 
woman  must  live  for  human  people.  Horace 
wasn't  enough.  I  might  have  had  lovers,  of 
course.  I  suppose  you  will  say  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had." 

Though  there  seemed  no  need  for  me  to  say 
anything,  I  murmured  that  I  thought  there  were 
more  likely  to  be  limits  to  the  rapacity  of  a  lover 
than  to  that  of  a  discontented  and  envious  family. 

"  Well,"  Cressida  gathered  herself  up,  u  once 
I  got  out  from  under  it  all,  didn't  I?  And  per- 
haps, in  a  milder  way,  such  a  release  can  come 
again.  You  were  the  first  person  I  told  when  I 
ran  away  with  Charley,  and  for  a  long -while  you 
—  94  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


were  the  only  one  who  knew  about  Blasius  Bouch- 
alka.  That  time,  at  least,  I  shook  the  Garnets. 
I  wasn't  distracted  or  empty.  That  time  I  was 
all  there !  " 

"  Yes,"  I  echoed  her,  "  that  time  you  were  all 
there.  It's  the  greatest  possible  satisfaction  to 
remember  it." 

"  But  even  that,"  she  sighed,  u  was  nothing  but 
lawyers  and  accounts  in  the  end  —  and  a  hurt. 
A  hurt  that  has  lasted.  I  wonder  what  is  the 
matter  with  me?  " 

The  matter  with  Cressida  was,  that  more  than 
any  woman  I  have  ever  known,  she  appealed  to  the 
acquisitive  instinct  in  men;  but  this  was  not  easily 
said,  even  in  the  brutal  frankness  of  a  long  friend- 
ship. 

We  would  probably  have  gone  further  into  the 
Bouchalka  chapter  of  her  life,  had  not  Horace  ap- 
peared and  nervously  asked  us  if  we  did  not  wish 
to  take  a  turn  before  we  went  inside.  I  pleaded 
indolence,  but  Cressida  rose  and  disappeared  with 
him.  Later  I  came  upon  them,  standing  at  the 
stern  above  the  huddled  steerage  deck,  which  was 
by  this  time  bathed  in  moonlight,  under  an  almost 
clear  sky.  Down  there  on  the  silvery  floor,  little 
hillocks  were  scattered  about  under  quilts  and 
shawls;  family  units,  presumably, —  male,  female, 
and  young.  Here  and  there  a  black  shawl  sat 
alone,  nodding.  They  crouched  submissively  un- 
—  95  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

der  the  moonlight  as  if  it  were  a  spell.  In  one  of 
those  hillocks  a  baby  was  crying,  but  the  sound 
was  faint  and  thin,  a  slender  protest  which  aroused 
no  response.  Everything  was  so  still  that  I  could 
hear  snatches  of  the  low  talk  between  my  friends. 
Cressida's  voice  was  deep  and  entreating.  She 
was  remonstrating  with  Horace  about  his  losses 
at  bridge,  begging  him  to  keep  away  from  the 
cardroom. 

"  But  what  else  is  there  to  do  on  a  trip  like 
this,  my  Lady? "  he  expostulated,  tossing  his 
spark  of  a  cigarette-end  overboard.  "  What  is 
there,  now,  to  do?  " 

"  Oh,  Horace!  "  she  murmured,  "  how  can  you 
be  so?  If  I  were  twenty-two,  and  a  boy,  with 
some  one  to  back  me  — " 

Horace  drew  his  shoulders  together  and  but- 
toned his  top-coat.  "  Oh,  I've  not  your  energy, 
Mother  dear.  We  make  no  secret  of  that.  I  am 
as  I  am.  I  didn't  ask  to  be  born  into  this  charm- 
ing world." 

To  this  gallant  speech  Cressida  made  no  an- 
swer. She  stood  with  her  hand  on  the  rail  and 
her  head  bent  forward,  as  if  she  had  lost  herself 
in  thought.  The  ends  of  her  scarf,  lifted  by  the 
breeze,  fluttered  upward,  almost  transparent  in 
the  argent  light.  Presently  she  turned  away, — 
as  if  she  had  been  alone  and  were  leaving  only  the 
night  sea  behind  her, —  and  walked  slowly  for- 

-96- 


The  Diamond  Mine 


ward;  a  strong,  solitary  figure  on  the  white  deck, 
the  smoke-like  scarf  twisting  and  climbing  and 
falling  back  upon  itself  in  the  light  over  her  head. 
She  reached  the  door  of  her  stateroom  and  disap- 
peared. Yes,  she  was  a  Garnet,  but  she  was  also 
Cressida;  and  she  had  done  what  she  had  done. 


II 

My  first  recollections  of  Cressida  Garnet  have 
to  do  with  the  Columbus  Public  Schools;  a  little 
girl  with  sunny  brown  hair  and  eager  bright  eyes, 
looking  anxiously  at  the  teacher  and  reciting  the 
names  and  dates  of  the  Presidents:  "James 
Buchanan,  1857-1861;  Abraham  Lincoln,  1861- 
1865  ";  etc-  Her  family  came  from  North  Car- 
olina, and  they  had  that  to  feel  superior  about 
before  they  had  Cressy.  The  Garnet  u  look," 
indeed,  though  based  upon  a  strong  family  re- 
semblance, was  nothing  more  than  the  restless, 
preoccupied  expression  of  an  inflamed  sense  of 
importance.  The  father  was  a  Democrat,  in  the 
sense  that  other  men  were  doctors  or  lawyers. 
He  scratched  up  some  sort  of  poor  living  for  his 
family  behind  office  windows  inscribed  with  the 
words  "  Real  Estate.  Insurance.  Investments." 
But  it  was  his  political  faith  that,  in  a  Republican 
community,  gave  him  his  feeling  of  eminence  and 
—  97—' 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

originality.  The  Garnet  children  were  all  in 
school  then,  scattered  along  from  the  first  grade 
to  the  ninth.  In  almost  any  room  of  our  school 
building  you  might  chance  to  enter,  you  saw  the 
self-conscious  little  face  of  one  or  another  of  them. 
They  were  restrained,  uncomfortable  children,  not 
frankly  boastful,  but  insinuating,  and  somehow 
forever  demanding  special  consideration  and  hold- 
ing grudges  against  teachers  and  classmates  who 
did  not  show  it  them;  all  but  Cressida,  who  was 
naturally  as  sunny  and  open  as  a  May  morning. 
It  was  no  wonder  that  Cressy  ran  away  with 
young  Charley  Wilton,  who  hadn't  a  shabby  thing 
about  him  except  his  health.  He  was  her  first 
music  teacher,  the  choir-master  of  the  church  in 
which  she  sang.  Charley  was  very  handsome; 
the  "  romantic "  son  of  an  old,  impoverished 
family.  He  had  refused  to  go  into  a  good  busi- 
ness with  his  uncles  and  had  gone  abroad  to  study 
music  when  that  was  an  extravagant  and  pic- 
turesque thing  for  an  Ohio  boy  to  do.  His  let- 
ters home  were  handed  round  among  the  members 
of  his  own  family*  and  of  other  families  equally 
conservative.  Indeed,  Charley  and  what  his 
mother  called  "  his  music  "  were  the  romantic 
expression  of  a  considerable  group  of  people; 
young  cousins  and  old  aunts  and  quiet-dwelling 
neighbours,  allied  by  the  amity  of  several  genera- 
tions. Nobody  was  properly  married  in  our  part 

-98- 


The  Diamond  Mine 


of  Columbus  unless  Charley  Wilton,  and  no  other, 
played  the  wedding  march.  The  old  ladies  of  the 
First  Church  used  to  say  that  he  "  hovered  over 
the  keys  like  a  spirit."  At  nineteen  Cressida  was 
beautiful  enough  to  turn  a  much  harder  head  than 
the  pale,  ethereal  one  Charley  Wilton  bent  above 
the  organ. 

That  the  chapter  which  began  so  gracefully  ran 
on  into  such  a  stretch  of  grim,  hard  prose,  was 
simply  Cressida's  relentless  bad  luck.  In  her  un- 
dertakings, in  whatever  she  could  lay  hold  of  with 
her  two  hands,  she  was  successful;  but  whatever 
happened  to  her  was  almost  sure  to  be  bad.  Her 
family,  her  husbands,  her  son,  would  have  crushed 
any  other  woman  I  have  ever  known.  Cressida 
lived,  more  than  most  of  us,  u  for  others  ";  and 
what  she  seemed  to  promote  among  her  benefici- 
aries was  indolence  and  envy  and  discord  —  even 
dishonesty  and  turpitude. 

Her  sisters  were  fond  of  saying  —  at  club 
luncheons  —  that  Cressida  had  remained  "un- 
touched by  the  breath  of  scandal,"  which  was  not 
strictly  true.  There  were  captious  people  who 
objected  to  her  long  and  close  association  with 
Miletus  Poppas.  Her  second  husband,  Ransome 
McChord,  the  foreign  representative  of  the  great 
McChord  Harvester  Company,  whom  she  married 
in  Germany,  had  so  persistently  objected  to  Pop- 
pas that  she  was  eventually  forced  to  choose  be- 
—  99  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

tween  them.  Any  one  who  knew  her  well  could 
easily  understand  why  she  chose  Poppas. 

While  her  actual  self  was  the  least  changed,  the 
least  modified  by  experience  that  it  would  be  pos- 
sible to  imagine,  there  had  been,  professionally, 
two  Cressida  Garnets;  the  big  handsome  girl,  al- 
ready a  "  popular  favourite  "  of  the  concert  stage, 
who  took  with  her  to  Germany  the  raw  material 
of  a  great  voice;  —  and  the  accomplished  artist 
who  came  back.  The  singer  that  returned  was 
largely  the  work  of  Miletus  Poppas.  Cressida 
had  at  least  known  what  she  needed,  hunted  for 
it,  found  it,  and  held  fast  to  it.  After  experi- 
menting with  a  score  of  teachers  and  accompanists, 
she  settled  down  to  work  her  problem  out  with 
Poppas.  Other  coaches  came  and  went  —  she 
was  always  trying  new  ones  —  but  Poppas  sur- 
vived them  all.  Cressida  was  not  musically  in- 
telligent; she  never  became  so.  Who  does  not 
remember  the  countless  rehearsals  which  were 
necessary  before  she  first  sang  Isolde  in  Berlin; 
the  disgust  of  the  conductor,  the  sullenness  of  the 
tenor,  the  rages  of  the  blonde  teufelin,  boiling 
with  the  impatience  of  youth  and  genius,  who 
sang  her  Brangaena?  Everything  but  her  driving 
power  Cressida  had  to  get  from  the  outside. 

Poppas  was,  in  his  way,  quite  as  incomplete  as 
his  pupil.  He  possessed  a  great  many  valuable 
things  for  which  there  is  no  market;  intuitions, 
—  IOO  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


discrimination,  imagination,  a  whole  twilight 
world  of  intentions  and  shadowy  beginnings  which 
were  dark  to  Cressida.  I  remember  that  when 
"  Trilby  "  was  published  she  fell  into  a  fright  and 
said  such  books  ought  to  be  prohibited  by  law; 
which  gave  me  an  intimation  of  what  their  rela- 
tionship had  actually  become. 

Poppas  was  indispensable  to  her.  He  was  like 
a  book  in  which  she  had  written  down  more  about 
herself  than  she  could  possibly  remember  —  and 
it  was  information  that  she  might  need  at  any 
moment.  He  was  the  one  person  who  knew  her 
absolutely  and  who  saw  into  the  bottom  of  her 
grief.  An  artist's  saddest  secrets  are  those  that 
have  to  do  with  his  artistry.  Poppas  knew  all  the 
simple  things  that  were  so  desperately  hard  for 
Cressida,  all  the  difficult  things  in  which  she  could 
count  on  herself;  her  stupidities  and  inconsisten- 
cies, the  chiaroscuro  of  the  voice  itself  and  what 
could  be  expected  from  the  mind  somewhat  mis- 
mated  with  it.  He  knew  where  she  was  sound 
and  where  she  was  mended.  With  him  she  could 
share  the  depressing  knowledge  of  what  a 
wretchedly  faulty  thing  any  productive  faculty  is. 

But  if  Poppas  was  necessary  to  her  career,  she 
was  his  career.  By  the  time  Cressida  left  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  Company,  Poppas  was  a  rich 
man.  He  had  always  received  a  retaining  fee  and 
a  percentage  of  her  salary, —  and  he  was  a  man 
—  101  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

of  simple  habits.  Her  liberality  with  Poppas  was 
one  of  the  weapons  that  Horace  and  the  Garnets 
used  against  Cressida,  and  it  was  a  point  in  the 
argument  by  which  they  justified  to  themselves 
their  rapacity.  Whatever  they  didn't  get,  they 
told  themselves,  Poppas  would.  What  they  got, 
therefore,  they  were  only  saving  from  Poppas. 
The  Greek  ached  a  good  deal  at  the  general 
pillage,  and  Cressida's  conciliatory  methods  with 
her  family  made  him  sarcastic  and  spiteful.  But 
he  had  to  make  terms,  somehow,  with  the  Garnets 
and  Horace,  and  with  the  husband,  if  there  hap- 
pened to  be  one.  He  sometimes  reminded  them, 
when  they  fell  to  wrangling,  that  they  must  not, 
after  all,  overturn  the  boat  under  them,  and  that 
it  would  be  better  to  stop  just  before  they  drove 
her  wild  than  just  after.  As  he  was  the  only  one 
among  them  who  understood  the  sources  of  her 
fortune, —  and  they  knew  it, —  he  was  able,  when 
it  came  to  a  general  set-to,  to  proclaim  sanctuary 
for  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  eggs. 

That  Poppas  had  caused  the  break  between 
Cressida  and  McChord  was  another  stick  her  sis- 
ters held  over  her.  They  pretended  to  under- 
stand perfectly,  and  were  always  explaining  what 
they  termed  her  "  separation  " ;  but  they  let  Cres- 
sida know  that  it  cast  a  shadow  over  her  family 
and  took  a  good  deal  of  living  down. 

A  beautiful  soundness  of  body,  a  seemingly  ex- 
—  102  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


haustless  vitality,  and  a  certain  "  squareness  "  of 
character  as  well  as  of  mind,  gave  Cressida  Gar- 
net earning  powers  that  were  exceptional  even  in 
her  lavishly  rewarded  profession.  Managers 
chose  her  oyer  the  heads  of  singers  much  more 
gifted,  because  she  was  so  sane,  so  conscientious, 
and  above  all,  because  she  was  so  sure.  Her  effi- 
ciency was  like  a  beacon  to  lightly  anchored  men, 
and  in  the  intervals  between  her  marriages  she  had 
as  many  suitors  as  Penelope.  Whatever  else  they 
saw  in  her  at  first,  her  competency  so  impressed 
and  delighted  them  that  they  gradually  lost  sight 
of  everything  else.  Her  sterling  character  was 
the  subject  of  her  story.  Once,  as  she  said,  she 
very  nearly  escaped  her  destiny.  With  Blasius 
Bouchalka  she  became  almost  another  woman,  but 
not  quite.  Her  "  principles,"  or  his  lack  of  them, 
drove  those  two  apart  in  the  end.  It  was  of 
Bouchalka  that  we  talked  upon  that  last  voyage 
I  ever  made  with  Cressida  Garnet,  and  not  of 
Jerome  Brown.  She  remembered  the  Bohemian 
kindly,  and  since  it  was  the  passage  in  her  life  to 
which  she  most  often  reverted,  it  is  the  one  I  shall 
relate  here. 

Ill 

Late   one   afternoon   in   the   winter  of    189-, 
Cressida   and   I   were  walking  in   Central   Park 
after  the  first  heavy  storm  of  the  year.     The  snow 
—  103  — • 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

had  been  falling  thickly  all  the  night  before,  and 
all  day,  until  about  four  o'clock.  Then  the  air 
grew  much  warmer  and  the  sky  cleared.  Over- 
head it  was  a  soft,  rainy  blue,  and  to  the  west  a 
smoky  gold.  All  around  the  horizon  everything 
became  misty  and  silvery;  even  the  big,  brutal 
buildings  looked  like  pale  violet  water-colours  on 
a  silver  ground.  Under  the  elm  trees  along  the 
Mall  the  air  was  purple  as  wisterias.  The  sheep- 
field,  toward  Broadway,  was  smooth  and  white, 
with  a  thin  gold  wash  over  it.  At  five  o'clock 
the  carriage  came  for  us,  but  Cressida  sent  the 
driver  home  to  the  Tenth  Street  house  with  the 
message  that  she  would  dine  uptown,  and  that 
Horace  and  Mr.  Poppas  were  not  to  wait  for  her. 
As  the  horses  trotted  away  we  turned  up  the  Mall. 

"  I  won't  go  indoors  this  evening  for  any  one," 
Cressida  declared.  "  Not  while  the  sky  is  like 
that.  Now  we  will  go  back  to  the  laurel  wood. 
They  are  so  black,  over  the  snow,  that  I  could  cry 
for  joy.  I  don't  know  when  I've  felt  so  care-free 
as  I  feel  tonight.  Country  winter,  country  stars 
—  they  always  make  me  think  of  Charley  Wil- 
ton." 

She  was  singing  twice  a  week,  sometimes 
oftener,  at  the  Metropolitan  that  season,  quite  at 
the  flood-tide  of  her  powers,  and  so  enmeshed  in 
operatic  routine  that  to  be  walking  in  the  park  at 
an  unaccustomed  hour,  unattended  by  one  of  the 
—  104  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


men  of  her  entourage,  seemed  adventurous.  As 
we  strolled  along  the  little  paths  among  the  snow 
banks  and  the  bronze  laurel  bushes,  she  kept  going 
back  to  my  poor  young  cousin,  dead  so  long. 
"  Things  happen  out  of  season.  That's  the  worst 
of  living.  It  was  untimely  for  both  of  us,  and 
yet,"  she  sighed  softly,  "  since  he  had  to  die,  I'm 
not  sorry.  There  was  one  beautifully  happy  year, 
though  we  were  so  poor,  and  it  gave  him  —  some- 
thing! It  would  have  been  too  hard  if  he'd  had 
to  miss  everything."  (I  remember  her  simplic- 
ity, which  never  changed  any  more  than  winter 
or  Ohio  change.)  "  Yes,"  she  went  on,  "I  al- 
ways feel  very  tenderly  about  Charley.  I  believe 
I'd  do  the  same  thing  right  over  again,  even  know- 
ing all  that  had  to  come  after.  If  I  were  nineteen 
tonight,  I'd  rather  go  sleigh-riding  with  Charley 
Wilton  than  anything  else  I've  ever  done." 

We  walked  until  the  procession  of  carriages  on 
the  driveway,  getting  people  home  to  dinner,  grew 
thin,  and  then  we  went  slowly  toward  the  Seventh 
Avenue  gate,  still  talking  of  Charley  Wilton. 
We  decided  to  dine  at  a  place  not  far  away,  where 
the  only  access  from  the  street  was  a  narrow  door, 
like  a  hole  in  the  wall,  between  a  tobacconist's  and 
a  flower  shop.  Cressida  deluded  herself  into  be- 
lieving that  her  incognito  was  more  successful  in 
such  non-descript  places.  She  was  wearing  a  long 
sable  coat,  and  a  deep  fur  hat,  hung  with  red 
—  105  — . 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

cherries,  which  she  had  brought  from  Russia. 
Her  walk  had  given  her  a  fine  colour,  and  she 
looked  so  much  a  personage  that  no  disguise  could 
have  been  wholly  effective. 

The  dining-rooms,  frescoed  with  conventional 
Italian  scenes,  were  built  round  a  court.  The 
orchestra  was  playing  as  we  entered  and  selected 
our  table.  It  was  not  a  bad  orchestra,  and  we 
were  no  sooner  seated  than  the  first  violin  began 
to  speak,  to  assert  itself,  as  if  it  were  suddenly 
done  with  mediocrity. 

'  We  have  been  recognized,"  Cressida  said  com- 
placently. "  What  a  good  tone  he  has,  quite  un- 
usual. What  does  he  look  like?"  She  sat  with 
her  back  to  the  musicians. 

The  violinist  was  standing,  directing  his  men 
with  his  head  and  with  the  beak  of  his  violin.  He 
was  a  tall,  gaunt  young  man,  big-boned  and  rug- 
ged, in  skin-tight  clothes.  His  high  forehead  had 
a  kind  of  luminous  pallour,  and  his  hair  was  jet 
black  and  somewhat  stringy.  His  manner  was 
excited  and  dramatic.  At  the  end  of  the  number 
he  acknowledged  the  applause,  and  Cressida 
looked  at  him  graciously  over  her  shoulder.  He 
swept  her  with  a  brilliant  glance  and  bowed  again. 
Then  I  noticed  his  red  lips  and  thick  black  eye- 
brows. 

u  He  looks  as  if  he  were  poor  or  in  trouble," 
'Cressida  said.     "  See  how  short  his  sleeves  are, 
—  1 06 — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


and  how  he  mops  his  face  as  if  the  least  thing 
upset  him.  This  is  a  hard  winter  for  musicians/' 

The  violinist  rummaged  among  some  music 
piled  on  a  chair,  turning  over  the  sheets  with 
flurried  rapidity,  as  if  he  were  searching  for  a 
lost  article  of  which  he  was  in  desperate  need. 
Presently  he  placed  some  sheets  upon  the  piano 
and  began  vehemently  to  explain  something  to  the 
pianist.  The  pianist  stared  at  the  music  doubt- 
fully —  he  was  a  plump  old  man  with  a  rosy,  bald 
crown,  and  his  shiny  linen  and  neat  tie  made  him 
look  as  if  he  were  on  his  way  to  a  party.  The 
violinist  bent  over  him,  suggesting  rhythms  with 
his  shoulders  and  running  his  bony  finger  up  and 
down  the  pages.  When  he  stepped  back  to  his 
place,  I  noticed  that  the  other  players  sat  at  ease, 
without  raising  their  instruments. 

"  He  is  going  to  try  something  unusual,"  I  com- 
mented. "  It  looks  as  if  it  might  be  manuscript." 

It  was  something,  at  all  events,  that  neither  of 
us  had  heard  before,  though  it  was  very  much  in 
the  manner  of  the  later  Russian  composers  who 
were  just  beginning  to  be  heard  in  New  York. 
The  young  man  made  a  brilliant  dash  of  it,  despite 
a  lagging,  scrambling  accompaniment  by  the  con- 
servative pianist.  This  time  we  both  applauded 
him  vigorously  and  again,  as  he  bowed,  he  swept 
us  with  his  eye. 

The  usual  repertory  of  restaurant  music  fol- 
—  107 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

lowed,  varied  by  a  charming  bit  from  Massenet's 
"  Manon,"  then  little  known  in  this  country. 
After  we  paid  our  check,  Cressida  took  out  one  of 
her  visiting  cards  and  wrote  across  the  top  of  it: 
"  We  thank  you  for  the  unusual  music  and  the 
pleasure  your  playing  has  given  us."  She  folded 
the  card  in  the  middle,  and  asked  the  waiter  to 
give  it  to  the  director  of  the  orchestra.  Pausing 
at  the  door,  while  the  porter  dashed  out  to  call  a 
cab,  we  saw,  in  the  wall  mirror,  a  pair  of  wild 
black  eyes  following  us  quite  despairingly  from  be- 
hind the  palms  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 
Cressida  observed  as  we  went  out  that  the  young 
man  was  probably  having  a  hard  struggle.  "  He 
never  got  those  clothes  here,  surely.  They  were 
probably  made  by  a  country  tailor  in  some  little 
town  in  Austria.  He  seemed  wild  enough  to  grab 
at  anything,  and  was  trying  to  make  himself  heard 
above  the  dishes,  poor  fellow.  There  are  so  many 
like  him.  I  wish  I  could  help  them  all !  I  didn't 
quite  have  the  courage  to  send  him  money.  His 
smile,  when  he  bowed  to  us,  was  not  that  of  one 
who  would  take  it,  do  you  think?  " 

"  No,"  I  admitted,  "  it  wasn't.  He  seemed  to 
be  pleading  for  recognition.  I  don't  think  it  was 
money  he  wanted." 

A  week  later  I  came  upon  some  curious-looking 
manuscript  songs  on  the  piano  in  Cressida's  music 
room.  The  text  was  in  some  Slavic  tongue  with 
—  108  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


a  French  translation  written  underneath.  Both 
the  handwriting  and  the  musical  script  were  done 
in  a  manner  experienced,  even  distinguished.  I 
was  looking  at  them  when  Cressida  came  in. 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  meant  to  ask 
you  to  try  them  over.  Poppas  thinks  they  are 
very  interesting.  They  are  from  that  young  vio- 
linist, you  remember, —  the  one  we  noticed  in  the 
restaurant  that  evening.  He  sent  them  with  such 
a  nice  letter.  His  name  is  Blasius  Bouchalka 
(Bou-kal-ka),  a  Bohemian." 

I  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  busied  myself  with 
the  manuscript,  while  Cressida  dashed  off  neces- 
sary notes  and  wrote  checks  in  a  large  square 
checkbook,  six  to  a  page.  I  supposed  her  im- 
mersed in  sumptuary  preoccupations  when  she 
suddenly  looked  over  her  shoulder  and  said, 
1  Yes,  that  legend,  Sarka,  is  the  most  interesting. 
Run  it  through  a  few  times  and  I'll  try  it  over 
with  you." 

There  was  another,  "  Dans  les  ombres  des 
forets  tristes"  which  I  thought  quite  as  beautiful. 
They  were  fine  songs;  very  individual,  and  each 
had  that  spontaneity  which  makes  a  song  seem 
inevitable  and,  once  for  all,  "  done."  The  ac- 
companiments were  difficult,  but  not  unnecessarily 
so;  they  were  free  from  fatuous  ingenuity  and  fine 
writing. 

"  I  wish  he'd  indicated  his  tempi  a  little  more 
—  109  — ' 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

clearly,"  I  remarked  as  I  finished  Sarka  for  the 
third  time.  "  It  matters,  because  he  really  has 
something  to  say.  An  orchestral  accompaniment 
would  be  better,  I  should  think." 

"  Yes,  he  sent  the  orchestral  arrangement. 
Poppas  has  it.  It  works  out  beautifully, —  so 
much  colour  in  the  instrumentation.  The  Eng- 
lish horn  comes  in  so  effectively  there,"  she  rose 
and  indicated  the  passage,  "  just  right  with  the 
voice.  I've  asked  him  to  come  next  Sunday,  so 
please  be  here  if  you  can.  I  want  to  know  what 
you  think  of  him." 

Cressida  was  always  at  home  to  her  friends  on 
Sunday  afternoon  unless  she  was  billed  for  the 
evening  concert  at  the  Opera  House,  in  which  case 
we  were  sufficiently  advised  by  the  daily  press. 
Bouchalka  must  have  been  told  to  come  early,  for 
when  I  arrived  on  Sunday,  at  four,  he  and  Cres- 
sida had  the  music-room  quite  to  themselves  and 
were  standing  by  the  piano  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion. In  a  few  moments  they  were  separated  by 
other  early  comers,  and  I  led  Bouchalka  across 
the  hall  to  the  drawing-room.  The  guests,  as 
they  came  in,  glanced  at  him  curiously.  He  wore 
a  dark  blue  suit,  soft  and  rather  baggy,  with  a 
short  coat,  and  a  high  double-breasted  vest  with 
two  rows  of  buttons  coming  up  to  the  loops  of  his 
black  tie.  This  costume  was  even  more  foreign- 
looking  than  his  skin-tight  dress  clothes,  but  it 
—  no  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


was  more  becoming.  He  spoke  hurried,  elliptical 
English,  and  very  good  French.  All  his  sym- 
pathies were  French  rather  than  German  —  the 
Czecks  lean  to  the  one  culture  or  to  the  other.  I 
found  him  a  fierce,  a  transfixing  talker.  His  bril- 
liant eyes,  his  gaunt  hands,  his  white,  deeply-lined 
forehead,  all  entered  into  his  speech. 

I  asked  him  whether  he  had  not  recognized 
Madame  Garnet  at  once  when  we  entered  the 
restaurant  that  evening  more  than  a  week  ago. 

"  Mais,  certainement!  I  hear  her  twice  when 
she  sings  in  the  afternoon,  and  sometimes  at  night 
for  the  last  act.  I  have  a  friend  who  buys  a 
ticket  for  the  first  part,  and  he  comes  out  and 
gives  to  me  his  pass-back  check,  and  I  return  for 
the  last  act.  That  is  convenient  if  I  am  broke." 
He  explained  the  trick  with  amusement  but  with- 
out embarrassment,  as  if  it  were  a  shift  that  we 
might  any  of  us  be  put  to. 

I  told  him  that  I  admired  his  skill  with  the 
violin,  but  his  songs  much  more. 

He  threw  out  his  red  under-lip  and  frowned. 
"  Oh,  I  have  no  instrument!  The  violin  I  play 
from  necessity;  the  flute,  the  piano,  as  it  hap- 
pens. For  three  years  now  I  write  all  the  time, 
and  it  spoils  the  hand  for  violin." 

When  the  maid  brought  him  his  tea,  he  took 
both  muffins  and  cakes  and  told  me  that  he  was 
very  hungry.  He  had  to  lunch  and  dine  at  the 
—  in  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

place  where  he  played,  and  he  got  very  tired  of 
the  food.  "  But  since,"  his  black  eyebrows  nearly 
met  in  an  acute  angle,  "  but  since,  before,  I  eat 
at  a  bakery,  with  the  slender  brown  roach  on  the 
pie,  I  guess  I  better  let  alone  well  enough."  He 
paused  to  drink  his  tea;  as  he  tasted  one  of  the 
cakes  his  face  lit  with  sudden  animation  and  he 
gazed  across  the  hall  after  the  maid  with  the  tray 
—  she  was  now  holding  it  before  the  aged  and 
ossified  'cellist  of  the  Hempfstangle  Quartette. 
"  Des  gateaux"  he  murmured  feelingly,  "  ou 
est-ce  quy  elle  pent  trouver  de  tels  gateaux  id  a 
New  York?" 

I  explained  to  him  that  Madame  Garnet  had 
an  accomplished  cook  who  made  them, —  an  Aus- 
trian, I  thought. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Austrichiennef  Je  ne 
pense  pas." 

Cressida  was  approaching  with  the  new  Span- 
ish soprano,  Mme.  Bartolas,  who  was  all  black 
velvet  and  long  black  feathers,  with  a  lace  veil 
over  her  rich  pallour  and  even  a  little  black  patch 
on  her  chin.  I  beckoned  them.  "  Tell  me,  Cres- 
sida, isn't  Ruzenka  an  Austrian?" 

She  looked  surprised.  "  No,  a  Bohemian, 
though  I  got  her  in  Vienna."  Bouchalka's  ex- 
pression, and  the  remnant  of  a  cake  in  his  long 
fingers,  gave  her  the  connection.  She  laughed. 
"  You  like  them?  Of  course,  they  are  of  your 
—  112  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


own  country.  You  shall  have  more  of  them." 
She  nodded  and  went  away  to  greet  a  guest  who 
had  just  come  in. 

A  few  moments  later,  Horace,  then  a  beautiful 
lad  in  Eaton  clothes,  brought  another  cup  of  tea 
and  a  plate  of  cakes  for  Bouchalka.  We  sat  down 
in  a  corner,  and  talked  about  his  songs.  He  was 
neither  boastful  nor  deprecatory.  He  knew  ex- 
actly in  what  respects  they  were  excellent.  I  de- 
cided as  I  watched  his  face,  that  he  must  be  under 
thirty.  The  deep  lines  in  his  forehead  probably 
came  there  from  his  habit  of  frowning  densely 
when  he  struggled  to  express  himself,  and  sud- 
denly elevating  his  coal-black  eyebrows  when  his 
ideas  cleared.  His  teeth  were  white,  very  irregu- 
lar and  interesting.  The  corrective  methods  of 
modern  dentistry  would  have  taken  away  half 
his  good  looks.  His  mouth  would  have  been 
much  less  attractive  for  any  re-arranging  of  those 
long,  narrow,  over-crowded  teeth.  Along  with 
his  frown  and  his  way  of  thrusting  out  his  lip,  they 
contributed,  somehow,  to  the  engaging  impetuous- 
ness  of  his  conversation.  As  we  talked  about  his 
songs,  his  manner  changed.  Before  that  he  had 
seemed  responsive  and  easily  pleased.  Now  he 
grew  abstracted,  as  if  I  had  taken  away  his  pleas- 
ant afternoon  and  wakened  him  to  his  miseries. 
He  moved  restlessly  in  his  clothes.  When  I  men- 
tioned Puccini,  he  held  his  head  in  his  hands. 

—  113  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

"  Why  is  it  they  like  that  always  and  always?  A 
little,  oh  yes,  very  nice.  But  so  much,  always 
the  same  thing!  Why?"  He  pierced  me  with 
the  despairing  glance  which  had  followed  us  out 
of  the  restaurant. 

I  asked  him  whether  he  had  sent  any  of  his 
songs  to  the  publishers  and  named  one  whom  I 
knew  to  be  discriminating.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "  They  not  want  Bohemian  songs. 
They  not  want  my  music.  Even  the  street  cars 
will  not  stop  for  me  here,  like  for  other  people. 
Every  time,  I  wait  on  the  corner  until  somebody 
else  make  a  signal  to  the  car,  and  then  it  stop, — 
but  not  for  me." 

Most  people  cannot  become  utterly  poor;  what- 
ever happens,  they  can  right  themselves  a  little. 
But  one  felt  that  Bouchalka  was  the  sort  of  per- 
son who  might  actually  starve  or  blow  his  brains 
out.  Something  very  important  had  been  left  out 
either  of  his  make-up  or  of  his  education;  some- 
thing that  we  are  not  accustomed  to  miss  in  peo- 
pie. 

Gradually  the  parlour  was  filled  with  little 
groups  of  friends,  and  I  took  Bouchalka  back  to 
the  music-room  where  Cressida  was  surrounded 
by  her  guests;  feathered  women,  with  large 
sleeves  and  hats,  young  men  of  no  importance,  in 
frock  coats,  with  shining  hair,  and  the  smile  which 
is  intended  to  say  so  many  flattering  things  but 
—  114  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


which  really  expresses  little  more  than  a  desire 
to  get  on.  The  older  men  were  standing  about 
waiting  for  a  word  a  deux  with  the  hostess.  To 
these  people  Bouchalka  had  nothing  to  say.  He 
stood  stiffly  at  the  outer  edge  of  the  circle,  watch- 
ing Cressida  with  intent,  impatient  eyes,  until, 
under  the  pretext  of  showing  him  a  score,  she 
drew  him  into  the  alcove  at  the  back  end  of  the 
long  room,  where  she  kept  her  musical  library. 
The  bookcases  ran  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling. 
There  was  a  table  and  a  reading-lamp,  and  a  win- 
dow seat  looking  upon  the  little  walled  garden. 
Two  persons  could  be  quite  withdrawn  there,  and 
yet  be  a  part  of  the  general  friendly  scene.  Cres- 
sida took  a  score  from  the  shelf,  and  sat  down 
with  Bouchalka  upon  the  window  seat,  the  book 
open  between  them,  though  neither  of  them  looked 
at  it  again.  They  fell  to  talking  with  great  earn- 
estness. At  last  the  Bohemian  pulled  out  a  large, 
yellowing  silver  watch,  held  it  up  before  him,  and 
stared  at  it  a  moment  as  if  it  were  an  object  of 
horror.  He  sprang  up,  bent  over  Cressida's  hand 
and  murmured  something,  dashed  into  the  hall 
and  out  of  the  front  door  without  waiting  for  the 
maid  to  open  it.  He  had  worn  no  overcoat,  ap- 
parently. It  was  then  seven  o'clock;  he  would 
surely  be  late  at  his  post  in  the  up-town  restaurant. 
I  hoped  he  would  have  wit  enough  to  take  the 
elevated. 

—  115—' 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

After  supper  Cressida  told  me  his  story.  His 
parents,  both  poor  musicians, —  the  mother  a 
singer  —  died  while  he  was  yet  a  baby,  and  he 
was  left  to  the  care  of  an  arbitrary  uncle  who 
resolved  to  make  a  priest  of  him.  He  was  put 
into  a  monastery  school  and  kept  there.  The 
organist  and  choir-director,  fortunately  for 
Blasius,  was  an  excellent  musician,  a  man  who  had 
begun  his  career  brilliantly,  but  who  had  met  with 
crushing  sorrows  and  disappointments  in  the 
world.  He  devoted  himself  to  his  talented  pupil, 
and  was  the  only  teacher  the  young  man  ever  had. 
At  twenty-one,  when  he  was  ready  for  the  novi- 
tiate, Blasius  felt  that  the  call  of  life  was  too 
strong  for  him,  and  he  ran  away  out  into  a  world 
of  which  he  knew  nothing.  He  tramped  south- 
ward to  Vienna,  begging  and  playing  his  fiddle 
from  town  to  town.  In  Vienna  he  fell  in  with  a 
gipsy  band  which  was  being  recruited  for  a  Paris 
restaurant  and  went  with  them  to  Paris.  He 
played  in  cafes  and  in  cheap  theatres,  did  trans- 
cribing for  a  music  publisher,  tried  to  get  pupils. 
For  four  years  he  was  the  mouse,  and  hunger  was 
the  cat.  She  kept  him  on  the  jump.  When  he 
got  work  he  did  not  understand  why;  when  he 
lost  a  job  he  did  not  understand  why.  During 
the  time  when  most  of  us  acquire  a  practical  sense, 
get  a  half-unconscious  knowledge  of  hard  facts  and 
market  values,  he  had  been  shut  away  from  the 
—  116  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


world,  fed  like  the  pigeons  in  the  bell-tower  of 
his  monastery.  Bouchalka  had  now  been  in  New 
York  a  year,  and  for  all  he  knew  about  it,  Cres- 
sida  said,  he  might  have  landed  the  day  before 
yesterday. 

Several  weeks  went  by,  and  as  Bouchalka  did 
not  reappear  on  Tenth  Street,  Cressida  and  I 
went  once  more  to  the  place  where  he  had  played, 
only  to  find  another  violinist  leading  the  orchestra. 
We  summoned  the  proprietor,  a  Swiss-Italian, 
polite  and  solicitous.  He  told  us  the  gentleman 
was  not  playing  there  any  more, —  was  playing 
somewhere  else,  but  he  had  forgotten  where.  We 
insisted  upon  talking  to  the  old  pianist,  who  at  last 
reluctantly  admitted  that  the  Bohemian  had  been 
dismissed.  He  had  arrived  very  late  one  Sunday 
night  three  weeks  ago,  and  had  hot  words  with 
the  proprietor.  He  had  been  late  before,  and 
had  been  warned.  He  was  a  very  talented  fel- 
low, but  wild  and  not  to  be  depended  upon.  The 
old  man  gave  us  the  address  of  a  French  boarding- 
house  on  Seventh  Avenue  where  Bouchalka  used 
to  room.  We  drove  there  at  oncej  but  the  woman 
who  kept  the  place  said  that  he  had  gone  away 
two  weeks  before,  leaving  no  address,  as  he  never 
got  letters.  Another  Bohemian,  who  did  engrav- 
ing on  glass,  had  a  room  with  her,  and  when  he 
came  home  perhaps  he  could  tell  where  Bouchalka 
was,  for  they  were  friends. 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

It  took  us  several  days  to  run  Bouchalka  down, 
but  when  we  did  find  him  Cressida  promptly  busied 
herself  in  his  behalf.  She  sang  his  "  Sarka  "  with 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  orchestra  at  a  Sunday 
night  concert,  she  got  him  a  position  with  the 
Symphony  Orchestra,  and  persuaded  the  conserva- 
tive Hempfstangle  Quartette  to  play  one  of  his 
chamber  compositions  from  manuscript.  She 
aroused  the  interest  of  a  publisher  in  his  work,  and 
introduced  him  to  people  who  were  helpful  to 
him. 

By  the  new  year  Bouchalka  was  fairly  on  his 
feet.  He  had  proper  clothes  now,  and  Cressida's 
friends  found  him  attractive.  He  was  usually  at 
her  house  on  Sunday  afternoons;  so  usually,  in- 
deed, that  Poppas  began  pointedly  to  absent  him- 
self. When  other  guests  arrived,  the  Bohemian 
and  his  patroness  were  always  found  at  the  critical 
point  of  discussion, —  at  the  piano,  by  the  fire,  in 
the  alcove  at  the  end  of  the  room  —  both  of  them 
interested  and  animated.  He  was  invariably  re- 
spectful and  admiring,  deferring  to  her  in  every 
tone  and  gesture,  and  she  was  perceptibly  pleased 
and  flattered, —  as  if  all  this  were  new  to  her  and 
she  were  tasting  the  sweetness  of  a  first  success. 

One  wild  day  in  March  Cressida  burst  tempest- 
uously into  my  apartment  and  threw  herself  down, 
declaring  that  she  had  just  come  from  the  most 
trying  rehearsal  she  had  ever  lived  through. 
—  118  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


When  I  tried  to  question  her  about  it,  she  replied 
absently  and  continued  to  shiver  and  crouch  by  the 
fire.  Suddenly  she  rose,  walked  to  the  window, 
and  stood  looking  out  over  the  Square,  glittering 
with  ice  and  rain  and  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of 
umbrellas.  When  she  turned  again,  she  ap- 
proached me  with  determination. 

"  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  go  with  me,"  she 
said  firmly.  "  That  crazy  Bouchalka  has  gone 
and  got  a  pleurisy  or  something.  It  may  be  pneu- 
monia; there  is  an  epidemic  of  it  just  now.  I've 
sent  Dr.  Brooks  to  him,  but  I  can  never  tell  any- 
thing from  what  a  doctor  says.  I've  got  to  see 
Bouchalka  and  his  nurse,  and  what  sort  of  place 
he's  in.  I've  been  rehearsing  all  day  and  I'm 
singing  tomorrow  night;  I  can't  have  so  much  on 
my  mind.  Can  you  come  with  me  ?  It  will  save 
time  in  the  end." 

I  put  on  my  furs,  and  we  went  down  to  Cres- 
sida's  carriage,  waiting  below.  She  gave  the 
driver  a  number  on  Seventh  Avenue,  and  then  be- 
gan feeling  her  throat  with  the  alarmed  expression 
which  meant  that  she  was  not  going  to  talk.  We 
drove  in  silence  to  the  address,  and  by  this  time 
it  was  growing  dark.  The  French  landlady  was 
a  cordial,  comfortable  person  who  took  Cressida 
in  at  a  glance  and  seemed  much  impressed.  Cres- 
sida's  incognito  was  never  successful.  Her  black 
gown  was  inconspicuous  enough,  but  over  it  she 
—  119  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

wore  a  dark  purple  velvet  carriage  coat,  lined  with 
fur  and  furred  at  the  cuffs  and  collar.  The 
Frenchwoman's  eye  ran  over  it  delightedly  and 
scrutinized  the  veil  which  only  half-concealed  the 
well-known  face  behind  it.  She  insisted  upon 
conducting  us  up  to  the  fourth  floor  herself,  run- 
ning ahead  of  us  and  turning  up  the  gas  jets  in  the 
dark,  musty-smelling  halls.  I  suspect  that  she 
tarried  outside  the  door  after  we  sent  the  nurse  for 
her  walk. 

We  found  the  sick  man  in  a  great  walnut  bed, 
a  relic  of  the  better  days  which  this  lodging  house 
must  have  seen.  The  grimy  red  plush  carpet,  the 
red  velvet  chairs  with  broken  springs,  the  double 
gilt-framed  mirror  above  the  mantel,  had  all  been 
respectable,  substantial  contributions  to  comfort 
in  their  time.  The  fireplace  was  now  empty  and 
grateless,  and  an  ill-smelling  gas  stove  burned  in 
its  sooty  recess  under  the  cracked  marble.  The 
huge  arched  windows  were  hung  with  heavy  red 
curtains,  pinned  together  and  lightly  stirred  by 
the  wind  which  rattled  the  loose  frames. 

I  was  examining  these  things  while  Cressida 
bent  over  Bouchalka.  Her  carriage  cloak  she 
threw  over  the  foot  of  his  bed,  either  from  a 
protective  impulse,  or  because  there  was  no  place 
else  to  put  it.  After  she  had  greeted  him  and 
seated  herself,  the  sick  man  reached  down  and 
drew  the  cloak  up  over  him,  looking  at  it  with 
—  1 20  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


weak,  childish  pleasure  and  stroking  the  velvet 
with  his  long  fingers.  "  Couleur  de  gloire, 
couleur  des  r ernes!  "  I  heard  him  murmur.  He 
thrust  the  sleeve  under  his  chin  and  closed  his 
eyes.  His  loud,  rapid  breathing  was  the  only 
sound  in  the  room.  If  Cressida  brushed  back  his 
hair  or  touched  his  hand,  he  looked  up  long  enough 
to  give  her  a  smile  of  utter  adoration,  naive  and 
uninquiring,  as  if  he  were  smiling  at  a  dream  or  a 
miracle. 

The  nurse  was  gone  for  an  hour,  and  we  sat 
quietly,  Cressida  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  Bou- 
chalka,  and  I  absorbed  in  the  strange  atmosphere 
of  the  house,  which  seemed  to  seep  in  under  the 
door  and  through  the  walls.  Occasionally  we 
heard  a  call  for  "  de  I'eau  chaude!  "  and  the  heavy 
trot  of  a  serving  woman  on  the  stairs.  On  the 
floor  below  somebody  was  struggling  with  Schu- 
bert's Marche  Militaire  on  a  coarse-toned  up- 
right piano.  Sometimes,  when  a  door  was  opened, 
one  could  hear  a  parrot  screaming,  "  Foila,  voila, 
tonnerre!  J)  The  house  was  built  before  1870,  as 
one  could  tell  from  windows  and  mouldings,  and 
the  walls  were  thick.  The  sounds  were  not  dis- 
turbing and  Bouchalka  was  probably  used  to  them. 

When  the  nurse  returned  and  we  rose  to  go, 

Bouchalka  still  lay  with  his  cheek  on  ,her  cloak, 

and  Cressida  left  it.     "  It  seems  to  please  him," 

she  murmured  as  we  went  down  the  stairs.     "  I 

—  121  — . 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

can  go  home  without  a  wrap.  It's  not  far."  I 
had,  of  course,  to  give  her  my  furs,  as  I  was  not 
singing  Donna  Anna  tomorrow  evening  and  she 
was. 

After  this  I  was  not  surprised  by  any  devout 
attitude  in  which  I  happened  to  find  the  Bohe- 
mian when  I  entered  Cressida's  music-room  unan- 
nounced, or  by  any  radiance  on  her  face  when  she 
rose  from  the  window-seat  in  the  alcove  and  came 
down  the  room  to  greet  me. 

Bouchalka  was,  of  course,  very  often  at  the 
Opera  now.  On  almost  any  night  when  Cressida 
sang,  one  could  see  his  narrow  black  head  —  high 
above  the  temples  and  rather  constrained  behind 
the  ears  —  peering  from  some  part  of  the  house. 
I  used  to  wonder  what  he  thought  of  Cressida  as 
an  artist,  but  probably  he  did  not  think  seriously 
at  all.  A  great  voice,  a  handsome  woman,  a  great 
prestige,  all  added  together  made  a  "  great  art- 
ist," the  common  synonym  for  success.  Her  suc- 
cess, and  the  material  evidences  of  it,  quite  blinded 
him.  I  could  never  draw  from  him  anything  ad- 
equate about  Anna  Straka,  Cressida's  Slavic  rival, 
and  this  perhaps  meant  that  he  considered  com- 
parison disloyal.  All  the  while  that  Cressida  was 
singing  reliably,  and  satisfying  the  management, 
Straka  was  singing  uncertainly  and  making  history. 
Her  voice  was  primarily  defective,  and  her  im- 
mediate vocal  method  was  bad.  Cressida  was  al- 
—  122  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


ways  living  up  to  her  contract,  delivering  the  whole 
order  in  good  condition ;  while  the  Slav  was  some- 
times almost  voiceless,  sometimes  inspired.  She 
put  you  off  with  a  hope,  a  promise,  time  after  time. 
But  she  was  quite  as  likely  to  put  you  off  with  a 
revelation, —  with  an  interpretation  that  was  in- 
imitable, unrepeatable. 

Bouchalka  was  not  a  reflective  person.  He 
had  his  own  idea  of  what  a  great  prima  donna 
should  be  like,  and  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
Mme.  Garnet  corresponded  to  his  conception. 
The  curious  thing  was  that  he  managed  to  im- 
press his  idea  upon  Cressida  herself.  She  began 
to  see  herself  as  he  saw  her,  to  try  to  be  like  the 
notion  of  her  that  he  carried  somewhere  in  that 
pointed  head  of  his.  She  was  exalted  quite  be- 
yond herself.  Things  that  had  been  chilled  un- 
der the  grind  came  to  life  in  her  that  winter,  with 
the  breath  of  Bouchalka's  adoration.  Then,  if 
ever  in  her  life,  she  heard  the  bird  sing  on  the 
branch  outside  her  window;  and  she  wished  she 
were  younger,  lovelier,  freer.  She  wished  there 
were  no  Poppas,  no  Horace,  no  Garnets.  She 
longed  to  be  only  the  bewitching  creature  Bou- 
chalka imagined  her. 

One  April  day  when  we  were  driving  in  the 

Park,   Cressida,   superb  in  a  green-and-primrose 

costume  hurried  over  from  Paris,  turned  to  me 

smiling  and  said:     "Do  you  know,  this  is  the 

—  123  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

first  spring  I  haven't  dreaded.  It's  the  first  one 
I've  ever  really  had.  Perhaps  people  never  have 
more  than  one,  whether  it  comes  early  or  l#te." 
She  told  me  that  she  was  overwhelmingly  in  love. 

Our  visit  to  Bouchalka  when  he  was  ill  had,  of 
course,  been  reported,  and  the  men  about  the 
Opera  House  had  made  of  it  the  only  story  they 
have  the  wit  to  invent.  They  could  no  more 
change  the  pattern  of  that  story  than  the  spider 
could  change  the  design  of  its  web.  But  being,  as 
she  said,  "  in  love  "  suggested  to  Cressida  only 
one  plan  of  action;  to  have  the  Tenth  Street  house 
done  over,  to  put  more  money  into  her  brothers' 
business,  send  Horace  to  school,  raise  Poppas' 
percentage,  and  then  with  a  clear  conscience  be 
married  in  the  Church  of  the  Ascension.  She  went 
through  this  program  with  her  usual  thorough- 
ness. She  was  married  in  June  and  sailed  imme- 
diately with  her  husband.  Poppas  was  to  join 
them  in  Vienna  in  August,  when  she  would  begin 
to  work  again.  From  her  letters  I  gathered  that 
all  was  going  well,  even  beyond  her  hopes. 

When  they  returned  in  October,  both  Cressida 
and  Blasius  seemed  changed  for  the  better.  She 
was  perceptibly  freshened  and  renewed.  She  at- 
tacked her  work  at  once  with  more  vigour  and 
more  ease;  did  not  drive  herself  so  relentlessly. 
A  little  carelessness  became  her  wonderfully. 
Bouchalka  was  less  gaunt,  and  much  less  flighty 
—  124  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


and  perverse.  His  frank  pleasure  in  the  comfort 
and  order  of  his  wife's  establishment  was  in- 
gratiating, even  if  it  was  a  little  amusing.  Cres- 
sida  had  the  sewing-room  at  the  top  of  the  house 
made  over  into  a  study  for  him.  When  I  went 
up  there  to  see  him,  I  usually  found  him  sitting 
before  the  fire  or  walking  about  with  his  hands  in 
his  coat  pockets,  admiring  his  new  possessions. 
He  explained  the  ingenious  arrangement  of  his 
study  to  me  a  dozen  times. 

With  Cressida's  friends  and  guests,  Bouchalka 
assumed  nothing  for  himself.  His  deportment 
amounted  to  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  appreciation  of 
her  and  of  his  good  fortune.  He  was  proud  to 
owe  his  wife  so  much.  Cressida's  Sunday  after- 
noons were  more  popular  than  ever,  since  she  her- 
self had  so  much  more  heart  for  them.  Bou- 
chalka's  picturesque  presence  stimulated  her 
graciousness  and  charm.  One  still  found  them 
conversing  together  as  eagerly  as  in  the  days  when 
they  saw  each  other  but  seldom.  Consequently 
their  guests  were  never  bored.  We  felt  as  if  the 
Tenth  Street  house  had  a  pleasant  climate  quite  its 
own.  In  the  spring,  when  the  Metropolitan  com- 
pany went  on  tour,  Cressida's  husband  accom- 
panied her,  and  afterward  they  again  sailed  for 
Genoa. 

During  the  second  winter  people  began  to  say 
that  Bouchalka  was  becoming  too  thoroughly  do- 
—  125  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

mesticated,  and  that  since  he  was  growing  heavier 
in  body  he  was  less  attractive.  I  noticed  his  in- 
creasing reluctance  to  stir  abroad.  Nobody 
could  say  that  he  was  "  wild  "  now.  He  seemed 
to  dread  leaving  the  house,  even  for  an  evening. 
Why  should  he  go  out,  he  said,  when  he  had 
everything  he  wanted  at  home?  He  published 
very  little.  One  was  given  to  understand  that 
v  he  was  writing  an  opera.  He  lived  in  the  Tenth 
Street  house  like  a  tropical  plant  under  glass. 
Nowhere  in  New  York  could  he  get  such  cookery 
as  Ruzenka's.  Ruzenka  ("  little  Rose")  had, 
like  her  mistress,  bloomed  afresh,  now  that  she 
had  a  man  and  a  compatriot  to  cook  for.  Her 
invention  was  tireless,  and  she  took  things  with  a 
high  hand  in  the  kitchen,  confident  of  a  perfect 
appreciation.  She  was  a  plump,  fair,  blue-eyed 
girl,  giggly  and  easily  flattered,  with  teeth  like 
cream.  She  was  passionately  domestic,  and  her 
mind  was  full  of  homely  stones  and  proverbs  and 
superstitions  which  she  somehow  worked  into  her 
cookery.  She  and  Bouchalka  had  between  them 
a  whole  literature  of  traditions  about  sauces  and 
fish  and  pastry.  The  cellar  was  full  of  the  wines 
he  liked,  and  Ruzenka  always  knew  what  wines 
to  serve  with  the  dinner.  Blasius'  monastery  had 
been  famous  for  good  living. 

That  winter  was  a  very  cold  one,  and  I  think 
the  even  temperature  of  the  house  enslaved  Bou- 
—  126  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


chalka.  "  Imagine  it,"  he  once  said  to  me  when 
I  dropped  in  during  a  blinding  snowstorm  and 
found  him  reading  before  the  fire.  "  To  be  warm 
all  the  time,  every  day!  It  is  like  Aladdin.  In 
Paris  I  have  had  weeks  together  when  I  was  not 
warm  once,  when  I  did  not  have  a  bath  once,  like 
the  cats  in  the  street.  The  nights  were  a  misery. 
People  have  terrible  dreams  when  they  are  so 
cold.  Here  I  waken  up  in  the  night  so  warm  I 
do  not  know  what  it  means.  Her  door  is  open, 
and  I  turn  on  my  light.  I  cannot  believe  in  myself 
until  I  see  that  she  is  there." 

I  began  to  think  that  Bouchalka's  wildness  had 
been  the  desperation  which  the  tamest  animals 
exhibit  when  they  are  tortured  or  terrorized. 
Naturally  luxurious,  he  had  suffered  more  than 
most  men  under  the  pinch  of  penury.  Those  first 
beautiful  compositions,  full  of  the  folk-music  of 
his  own  country,  had  been  wrung  out  of  him  by 
home-sickness  and  heart-ache.  I  wondered 
whether  he  could  compose  only  under  the  spur  of 
hunger  and  loneliness,  and  whether  his  talent 
might  not  subside  with  his  despair.  Some  such 
apprehension  must  have  troubled  Cressida,  though 
his  gratitude  would  have  been  propitiatory  to  a 
more  exacting  task-master.  She  had  always  liked 
to  make  people  happy,  and  he  was  the  first  one 
who  had  accepted  her  bounty  without  sourness. 
When  he  did  not  accompany  her  upon  her  spring 
—  127  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

tour,  Cressida  said  it  was  because  travelling  in- 
terfered with  composition;  but  I  felt  that  she 
was  deeply  disappointed.  Blasius,  or  Blazej,  as 
his  wife  had  with  difficulty  learned  to  call  him,  was 
not  showy  or  extravagant.  He  hated  hotels,  even 
the  best  of  them.  Cressida  had  always  fought 
for  the  hearthstone  and  the  fireside,  and  the 
humour  of  Destiny  is  sometimes  to  give  us  too 
much  of  what  we  desire.  I  believe  she  would 
have  preferred  even  enthusiasm  about  other 
women  to  his  utter  oisivete.  It  was  his  old  fire, 
not  his  docility,  that  had  won  her. 

During  the  third  season  after  her  marriage 
Cressida  had  only  twenty-five  performances  at  the 
Metropolitan,  and  she  was  singing  out  of  town  a 
great  deal.  Her  husband  did  not  bestir  himself 
to  accompany  her,  but  he  attended,  very  faith- 
fully, to  her  correspondence  and  to  her  business 
at  home.  He  had  no  ambitious  schemes  to  in- 
crease her  fortune,  and  he  carried  out  her  direc- 
tions exactly.  Nevertheless,  Cressida  faced  her 
concert  tours  somewhat  grimly,  and  she  seldom 
talked  now  about  their  plans  for  the  future. 

The  crisis  in  this  growing  estrangement  came 
about  by  accident, —  one  of  those  chance  occur- 
rences that  affect  our  lives  more  than  years  of  or- 
dered effort, —  and  it  came  in  an  inverted  form  of 
a  situation  old  to  comedy.  Cressida  had  been  on 
the  road  for  several  weeks ;  singing  in  Minneapo- 
—  128  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


lis,  Cleveland,  St.  Paul,  then  up  into  Canada  and 
back  to  Boston.  From  Boston  she  was  to  go  di- 
rectly to  Chicago,  coming  down  on  the  five  o'clock 
train  and  taking  the  eleven,  over  the  Lake  Shore, 
for  the  West.  By  her  schedule  she  would  have 
time  to  change  cars  comfortably  at  the  Grand  Cen- 
tral station. 

On  the  journey  down  from  Boston  she  was 
seized  with  a  great  desire  to  see  Blasius.  She  de- 
cided, against  her  custom,  one  might  say  against 
her  principles,  to  risk  a  performance  with  the 
Chicago  orchestra  without  rehearsal,  to  stay  the 
night  in  New  York  and  go  west  by  the  afternoon 
train  the  next  day.  She  telegraphed  Chicago,  but 
she  did  not  telegraph  Blasius,  because  she  wished 
—  the  old  fallacy  of  affection !  —  to  "  surprise  " 
him.  She  could  take  it  for  granted  that,  at  eleven 
on  a  cold  winter  night,  he  would  be  in  the  Tenth 
Street  house  and  nowhere  else  in  New  York.  She 
sent  Poppas  —  paler  than  usual  with  accusing 
scorn  —  and  her  trunks  on  to  Chicago,  and  with 
only  her  travelling  bag  and  a  sense  of  being  very 
audacious  in  her  behaviour  and  still  very  much  in 
love,  she  took  a  cab  for  Tenth  Street. 

Since  it  was  her  intention  to  disturb  Blasius  as 
little  as  possible  and  to  delight  him  as  much  as 
possible,  she  let  herself  in  with  her  latch-key  and 
went  directly  to  his  room.  She  did  not  find  him 
there.  Indeed,  she  found  him  where  he  should 
—  129—* 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

not  have  been  at  all.  There  must  have  been  a 
trying  scene. 

Ruzenka  was  sent  away  in  the  morning,  and  the 
other  two  maids  as  well.  By  eight  o'clock  Cres- 
sida  and  Bouchalka  had  the  house  to  themselves. 
Nobody  had  any  breakfast.  Cressida  took  the 
afternoon  train  to  keep  her  engagement  with 
Theodore  Thomas,  and  to  think  over  the  situa- 
tion. Blasius  was  left  in  the  Tenth  Street  house 
with  only  the  furnace  man's  wife  to  look  after 
him.  His  explanation  of  his  conduct  was  that  he 
had  been  drinking  too  much.  His  digression,  he 
swore,  was  casual.  It  had  never  occurred  be- 
fore, and  he  could  only  appeal  to  his  wife's  mag- 
nanimity. But  it  was,  on  the  whole,  easier  for 
Cressida  to  be  firm  than  to  be  yielding,  and  she 
knew  herself  too  well  to  attempt  a  readjustment. 
She  had  never  made  shabby  compromises,  and  it 
was  too  late  for  her  to  begin.  When  she  re- 
turned to  New  York  she  went  to  a  hotel,  and  she 
never  saw  Bouchalka  alone  again.  Since  he  ad- 
mitted her  charge,  the  legal  formalities  were  con- 
ducted so  quietly  that  the  granting  of  her  divorce 
was  announced  in  the  morning  papers  before  her 
friends  knew  that  there  was  the  least  likelihood  of 
one.  Cressida's  concert  tours  had  interrupted  the 
hospitalities  of  the  house. 

While  the  lawyers  were  arranging  matters, 
Bouchalka  came  to  see  me.  He  was  remorseful 
—  130  — 


/ 


The  Diamond  Mine 


and  miserable  enough,  and  I  think  his  perplexity 
was  quite  sincere.  If  there  had  been  an  intrigue 
with  a  woman  of  her  own  class,  an  infatuation,  an 
affair,  he  said,  he  could  understand.  But  any- 
thing so  venial  and  accidental —  He  shook  his 
head  slowly  back  and  forth.  He  assured  me  that 
he  was  not  at  all  himself  on  that  fateful  evening, 
and  that  when  he  recovered  himself  he  would  have 
sent  Ruzenka  away,  making  proper  provision  for 
her,  of  course.  It  was  an  ugly  thing,  but  ugly 
things  sometimes  happened  in  one's  life,  and  one 
had  to  put  them  away  and  forget  them.  He  could 
have  overlooked  any  accident  that  might  have  oc- 
curred when  his  wife  was  on  the  road,  with  Pop- 
pas, for  example.  I  cut  him  short,  and  he  bent 
his  head  to  my  reproof. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  such  things  are  different 
with  her.  But  when  have  I  said  that  I  am  noble 
as  she  is?  Never.  But  I  have  appreciated  and 
I  have  adored.  About  me,  say  what  you  like. 
But  if  you  say  that  in  this  there  was  any  meprise 
to  my  wife,  that  is  not  true.  I  have  lost  all  my 
place  here.  I  came  in  from  the  streets;  but  I  un- 
derstand her,  and  all  the  fine  things  in  her,  better 
than  any  of  you  here.  If  that  accident  had  not 
been,  she  would  have  lived  happy  with  me  for 
years.  As  for  me,  I  have  never  believed  in  this 
happiness.  I  was  not  born  under  a  good  star. 
How  did  it  come?  By  accident.  It  goes  by  ac- 
—  131—* 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

cident.  She  tried  to  give  good  fortune  to  an  un- 
fortunate man,  un  miserable;  that  was  her  mis- 
take. It  cannot  be  done  in  this  world.  The 
lucky  should  marry  the  lucky."  Bouchalka 
stopped  and  lit  a  cigarette.  He  sat  sunk  in  my 
chair  as  if  he  never  meant  to  get  up  again.  His 
large  hands,  now  so  much  plumper  than  when  I 
first  knew  him,  hung  limp.  When  he  had  con- 
sumed his  cigarette  he  turned  to  me  again. 

"  I,  too,  have  tried.  Have  I  so  much  as  writ- 
ten one  note  to  a  lady  since  she  first  put  out  her 
hand  to  help  me?  Some  of  the  artists  who  sing 
my  compositions  have  been  quite  willing  to  plague 
my  wife  a  little  if  I  make  the  least  sign.  With 
the  Espanola,  for  instance,  I  have  had  to  be  very 
stern,  farouche;  she  is  so  very  playful.  I  have 
never  given  my  wife  the  slightest  annoyance  of 
this  kind.  Since  I  married  her,  I  have  not  kissed 
the  cheek  of  one  lady!  Then  one  night  I  am 
bored  and  drink  too  much  champagne  and  I  be- 
come a  fool.  What  does  it  matter?  Did  my 
wife  marry  the  fool  of  me?  No,  she  married  me, 
with  my  mind  and  my  feelings  all  here,  as  I  am 
today.  But  she  is  getting  a  divorce  from  the  fool 
of  me,  which  she  would  never  see  anyhow!  The 
stupidity  which,  excuse  me,  is  the  thing  she  will  not 
overlook.  Even  in  her  memory  of  me  she  will  be 
harsh." 

His  view  of  his  conduct  and  its  consequences 
—  132  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


was  fatalistic:  he  was  meant  to  have  just  so 
much  misery  every  day  of  his  life;  for  three 
years  it  had  been  withheld,  had  been  piling  up 
somewhere,  underground,  overhead;  now  the 
accumulation  burst  over  him.  He  had  come  to 
pay  his  respects  to  me,  he  said,  to  declare  his  un- 
dying gratitude  to  Madame  Garnet,  and  to  bid 
me  farewell.  He  took  up  his  hat  and  cane  and 
kissed  my  hand.  I  have  never  seen  him  since. 
Cressida  made  a  settlement  upon  him,  but  even 
Poppas,  tortured  by  envy  and  curiosity,  never  dis- 
covered how  much  it  was.  It  was  very  little,  she 
told  me.  "  Pour  des  gateaux"  she  added  with 
a  smile  that  was  not  unforgiving.  She  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  his  being  in  want  when  so  little 
could  make  him  comfortable. 

He  went  back  to  his  own  village  in  Bohemia. 
He  wrote  her  that  the  old  monk,  his  teacher,  was 
still  alive,  and  that  from  the  windows  of  his  room 
in  the  town  he  could  see  the  pigeons  flying  forth 
from  and  back  to  the  monastery  bell-tower  all  day 
long.  He  sent  her  a  song,  with  his  own  words, 
about  those  pigeons, —  quite  a  lovely  thing.  He 
was  the  bell  tower,  and  les  colombes  were  his  mem- 
ories of  her. 

IV 

Jerome  Brown  proved,  on  the  whole,  the  worst 
of  Cressida's  husbands,  and,  with  the  possible  ex- 
—  133  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ception  of  her  eldest  brother,  Buchanan  Garnet, 
he  was  the  most  rapacious  of  the  men  with  whom 
she  had  had  to  do.  It  was  one  thing  to  gratify 
every  wish  of  a  cake-loving  fellow  like  Bouchalka, 
but  quite  another  to  stand  behind  a  financier. 
And  Brown  would  be  a  financier  or  nothing.  After 
her  marriage  with  him,  Cressida  grew  rapidly 
older.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  wanted 
to  go  abroad  and  live  —  to  get  Jerome  Brown 
away  from  the  scene  of  his  unsuccessful  but  un- 
discouraged  activities.  But  Brown  was  not  a  man 
who  could  be  amused  and  kept  out  of  mischief  in 
Continental  hotels.  He  had  to  be  a  figure,  if 
only  a  "  mark,"  in  Wall  street.  Nothing  else 
would  gratify  his  peculiar  vanity.  The  deeper 
he  went  in,  the  more  affectionately  he  told  Cres- 
sida that  now  all  her  cares  and  anxieties  were 
over.  To  try  to  get  related  facts  out  of  his 
optimism  was  like  trying  to  find  framework  in  a 
feather  bed.  All  Cressida  knew  was  that  she 
was  perpetually  "  investing  "  to  save  investments. 
When  she  told  me  she  had  put  a  mortgage  on 
the  Tenth  Street  house,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  Why  is  it?  I  have  never  cared  about  money, 
except  to  make  people  happy  with  it,  and  it  has 
been  the  curse  of  my  life.  It  has  spoiled  all  my 
relations  with  people.  Fortunately,"  she  added 
irrelevantly,  drying  her  eyes,  "  Jerome  and  Pop- 
pas get  along  well."  Jerome  could  have  got 
—  134  — 


The  Diamond  Mine 


along  with  anybody;  that  is  a  promoter's  business. 
His  warm  hand,  his  flushed  face,  his  bright  eye, 
and  his  newest  funny  story, —  Poppas  had  no 
weapons  that  could  do  execution  with  a  man  like 
that. 

Though  Brown's  ventures  never  came  home, 
there  was  nothing  openly  disastrous  until  the  out- 
break of  the  revolution  in  Mexico  jeopardized 
his  interests  there.  Then  Cressida  went  to  Eng- 
land —  where  she  could  always  raise  money  from 
a  faithful  public — for  a  winter  concert  tour. 
When  she  sailed,  her  friends  knew  that  her  hus- 
band's affairs  were  in  a  bad  way;  but  we  did  not 
know  how  bad  until  after  Cressida's  death. 

Cressida  Garnet,  as  all  the  world  knows,  was 
lost  on  the  Titanic.  Poppas  and  Horace,  who 
had  been  travelling  with  her,  were  sent  on  a  week 
earlier  and  came  as  safely  to  port  as  if  they  had 
never  stepped  out  of  their  London  hotel.  But 
Cressida  had  waited  for  the  first  trip  of  the  sea 
monster  —  she  still  believed  that  all  advertising 
was  good  —  and  she  went  down  on  the  road  be- 
tween the  old  world  and  the  new.  She  had  been 
ill,  and  when  the  collision  occurred  she  was  in  her 
stateroom,  a  modest  one  somewhere  down  in  the 
boat,  for  she  was  travelling  economically.  Ap- 
parently she  never  left  her  cabin.  She  was  not 
seen  on  the  decks,  and  none  of  the  survivors 
brought  any  word  of  her. 

—  135  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

On  Monday,  when  the  wireless  messages  were 
coming  from  the  Carpathia  with  the  names  of  the 
passengers  who  had  been  saved,  I  went,  with  so 
many  hundred  others,  down  to  the  White  Star 
offices.  There  I  saw  Cressida's  motor,  her  re- 
doubtable initials  on  the  door,  with  four  men  sit- 
ting in  the  limousine.  Jerome  Brown,  stripped 
of  the  promoter's  joviality  and  looking  flabby  and 
old,  sat  behind  with  Buchanan  Garnet,  who  had 
come  on  from  Ohio.  I  had  not  seen  him  for 
years.  He  was  now  an  old  man,  but  he  was  still 
conscious  of  being  in  the  public  eye,  and  sat  turn- 
ing a  cigar  about  in  his  face  with  that  foolish  look 
of  importance  which  Cressida's  achievement  had 
stamped  upon  all  the  Garnets.  Poppas  was  in 
front,  with  Horace.  He  was  gnawing  the  finger 
of  his  chamois  glove  as  it  rested  on  the  top  of 
his  cane.  His  head  was  sunk,  his  shoulders  drawn 
together;  he  looked  as  old  as  Jewry.  I  watched 
them,  wondering  whether  Cressida  would  come 
back  to  them  if  she  could.  After  the  last  names 
were  posted,  the  four  men  settled  back  into  the 
powerful  car  —  one  of  the  best  made  —  and  the 
chauffeur  backed  off.  I  saw  him  dash  away  the 
tears  from  his  face  with  the  back  of  his  driving 
glove.  He  was  an  Irish  boy,  and  had  been  de- 
voted to  Cressida. 

When  the  will  was  read,  Henry  Gilbert,  the 
lawyer,  an  old  friend  of  her  early  youth,  and  I, 

-136- 


The  Diamond  Mine 


were  named  executors.  A  nice  job  we  had  of  it. 
Most  of  her  large  fortune  had  been  converted 
into  stocks  that  were  almost  worthless.  The  mar- 
ketable property  realized  only  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars.  To  defeat  the  bequest  of  fifty 
thousand  dollars  to  Poppas,  Jerome  Brown  and 
her  family  contested  the  will.  They  brought 
Cressida's  letters  into  court  to  prove  that  the 
will  did  not  represent  her  intentions,  often  ex- 
pressed in  writing  through  many  years,  to  "  pro- 
vide well  "  for  them. 

Such  letters  they  were !  The  writing  of  a  tired, 
overdriven  woman;  promising  money,  sending 
money  herewith,  asking  for  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  draft  sent  last  month,  etc.  In  the 
letters  to  Jerome  Brown  she  begged  for  informa- 
tion about  his  affairs  and  entreated  him  to  go 
with  her  to  some  foreign  city  where  they  could 
live  quietly  and  where  she  could  rest;  if  they  were 
careful,  there  would  "  be  enough  for  all." 
Neither  Brown  nor  her  brothers  and  sisters  had 
any  sense  of  shame  about  these  letters.  It  seemed 
never  to  occur  to  them  that  this  golden  stream, 
whether  it  rushed  or  whether  it  trickled,  came  out 
of  the  industry,  out  of  the  mortal  body  of  a 
woman.  They  regarded  her  as  a  natural  source 
of  wealth;  a  copper  vein,  a  diamond  mine. 

Henry  Gilbert  is  a  good  lawyer  himself,  and 
he  employed  an  able  man  to  defend  the  will.  We 
—  137  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

determined  that  in  this  crisis  we  would  stand  by 
Poppas,  believing  it  would  be  Cressida's  wish. 
Out  of  the  lot  of  them,,  he  was  the  only  one  who 
had  helped  her  to  make  one  penny  of  the  money 
that  had  brought  her  so  much  misery.  He  was 
at  least  more  deserving  than  the  others.  We  saw 
to  it  that  Poppas  got  his  fifty  thousand,  and  he 
actually  departed,  at  last,  for  his  city  in  la  salnte 
Asie,  where  it  never  rains  and  where  he  will  never 
again  have  to  hold  a  hot  water  bottle  to  his  face. 

The  rest  of  the  property  was  fought  for  to  a 
finish.  Poppas  out  of  the  way,  Horace  and 
Brown  and  the  Garnets  quarrelled  over  her  per- 
sonal effects.  They  went  from  floor  to  floor  of 
the  Tenth  Street  house.  The  will  provided  that 
Cressida's  jewels  and  furs  and  gowns  were  to  go 
to  her  sisters.  Georgie  and  Julia  wrangled  over 
them  down  to  the  last  moleskin.  They  were 
deeply  disappointed  that  some  of  the  muffs  and 
stoles  which  they  remembered  as  very  large, 
proved,  when  exhumed  from  storage  and  exhibited 
beside  furs  of  a  modern  cut,  to  be  ridiculously 
scant.  A  year  ago  the  sisters  were  still  reasoning 
with  each  other  about  pearls  and  opals  and 
emeralds. 

I  wrote  Poppas  some  account  of  these  horrors, 
as  during  the  court  proceedings  we  had  become 
rather  better  friends  than  of  old.  His  reply  ar- 


The  Diamond  Mine 


rived  only  a  few  days  ago;  a  photograph  of  him- 
self upon  a  camel,  under  which  is  written: 

Traulich  und  Treu 
ist's  nur  in  der  Tiefe: 
falsch  und  feig 
ist  was  dort  oben  sich  freutf 

His  reply,  and  the  memories  it  awakens  — 
memories  which  have  followed  Poppas  into  the 
middle  of  Asia,  seemingly, —  prompted  this  in- 
formal narration. 


—  139  — 


A   Gold  Slipper 

MARSHALL  McKANN  followed  his  wife 
and  her  friend  Mrs.  Post  down  the  aisle 
and  up  the  steps  to  the  stage  of  the 
Carnegie  Music  Hall  with  an  ill-concealed  feeling 
of  grievance.  Heaven  knew  he  never  went  to 
concerts,  and  to  be  mounted  upon  the  stage  in 
this  fashion,  as  if  he  were  a  "  highbrow  "  from 
Sewickley,  or  some  unfortunate  with  a  musical 
wife,  was  ludicrous.  A  man  went  to  concerts 
when  he  was  courting,  while  he  was  a  junior  part- 
ner. When  he  became  a  person  of  substance  he 
stopped  that  sort  of  nonsense.  His  wife,  too, 
was  a  sensible  person,  the  daughter  of  an  old 
Pittsburgh  family  as  solid  and  well-rooted  as  the 
McKanns.  She  would  never  have  bothered  him 
about  this  concert  had  not  the  meddlesome  Mrs. 
Post  arrived  to  pay  her  a  visit.  Mrs.  Post  was 
an  old  school  friend  of  Mrs.  McKann,  and  be- 
cause she  lived  in  Cincinnati  she  was  always  keep- 
ing up  with  the  world  and  talking  about  things  in 
which  no  one  else  was  interested,  music  among 
them.  She  was  an  aggressive  lady,  with  weighty 
opinions,  and  a  deep  voice  like  a  jovial  bassoon. 
—  140  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


She  had  arrived  only  last  night,  and  at  dinner  she 
brought  it  out  that  she  could  on  no  account  miss 
Kitty  Ayrshire's  recital;  it  was,  she  said,  the  sort 
of  thing  no  one  could  afford  to  miss. 

When  McKann  went  into  town  in  the  morning 
he  found  that  every  seat  in  the  music-hall  was  sold. 
He  telephoned  his  wife  to  that  effect,  and,  think- 
ing he  had  settled  the  matter,  made  his  reservation 
on  the  11.25  train  for  New  York.  He  was  un- 
able to  get  a  drawing-room  because  this  same 
Kitty  Ayrshire  had  taken  the  last  one.  He  had 
not  intended  going  to  New  York  until  the  follow- 
ing week,  but  he  preferred  to  be  absent  during 
Mrs.  Post's  incumbency. 

In  the  middle  of  the  morning,  when  he  was 
deep  in  his  correspondence,  his  wife  called  him  up 
to  say  the  enterprising  Mrs.  Post  had  telephoned 
some  musical  friends  in  Sewickley  and  had  found 
that  two  hundred  folding-chairs  were  to  be  placed 
on  the  stage  of  the  concert-hall,  behind  the  piano, 
and  that  they  would  be  on  sale  at  noon.  Would 
he  please  get  seats  in  the  front  row?  McKann 
asked  if  they  would  not  excuse  him,  since  he  was 
going  over  to  New  York  on  the  late  train,  would 
be  tired,  and  would  not  have  time  to  dress,  etc. 
No,  not  at  all.  It  would  be  foolish  for  two 
women  to  trail  up  to  the  stage  unattended.  Mrs. 
Post's  husband  always  accompanied  her  to  con- 
certs, and  she  expected  that  much  attention  from 
—  141  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

her  host.  He  needn't  dress,  and  he  could  take  a 
taxi  from  the  concert-hall  to  the  East  Liberty  sta- 
tion. 

The  outcome  of  it  all  was  that,  though  his  bag 
was  at  the  station,  here  was  McKann,  in  the  worst 
possible  humour,  facing  the  large  audience  to 
which  he  was  well  known,  and  sitting  among  a  lot 
of  music  students  and  excitable  old  maids.  Only 
the  desperately  zealous  or  the  morbidly  curious 
would  endure  two  hours  in  those  wooden  chairs, 
and  he  sat  in  the  front  row  of  this  hectic  body, 
somehow  made  a  party  to  a  transaction  for  which 
he  had  the  utmost  contempt. 

When  McKann  had  been  in  Paris,  Kitty  Ayr- 
shire was  singing  at  the  Comique,  and  he  wouldn't 
go  to  hear  her  —  even  there,  where  one  found  so 
little  that  was  better  to  do.  She  was  too  much 
talked  about,  too  much  advertised;  always  being 
thrust  in  an  American's  face  as  if  she  were  some- 
thing to  be  proud  of.  Perfumes  and  petticoats 
and  cutlets  were  named  for  her.  Some  one  had 
pointed  Kitty  out  to  him  one  afternoon  when  she 
was  driving  in  the  Bois  with  a  French  composer 
—  old  enough,  he  judged,  to  be  her  father  —  who 
was  said  to  be  infatuated,  carried  away  by  her. 
McKann  was  told  that  this  was  one  of  the  historic 
passions  of  old  age.  He  had  looked  at  her  on 
that  occasion,  but  she  was  so  befrilled  and  be- 
feathered  that  he  caught  nothing  but  a  graceful 
—  142  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


outline  and  a  small,  dark  head  above  a  white  os- 
trich boa.  He  had  noted  with  disgust,  however, 
the  stooped  shoulders  and  white  imperial  of  the 
silk-hatted  man  beside  her,  and  the  senescent  line 
of  his  back.  McKann  described  to  his  wife  this 
unpleasing  picture  only  last  night,  while  he  was 
undressing,  when  he  was  making  every  possible 
effort  to  avert  this  concert  party.  But  Bessie 
only  looked  superior  and  said  she  wished  to  hear 
Kitty  Ayrshire  sing,  and  that  her  "  private  life  " 
was  something  in  which  she  had  no  interest. 

Well,  here  he  was;  hot  and  uncomfortable,  in  a 
chair  much  too  small  for  him,  with  a  row  of  blind- 
ing footlights  glaring  in  his  eyes.  Suddenly  the 
door  at  his  right  elbow  opened.  Their  seats  were 
at  one  end  of  the  front  row;  he  had  thought  they 
would  be  less  conspicuous  there  than  in  the  centre, 
and  he  had  not  foreseen  that  the  singer  would 
walk  over  him  every  time  she  came  upon  the 
stage.  Her  velvet  train  brushed  against  his  trous- 
ers as  she  passed  him.  The  applause  which 
greeted  her  was  neither  overwhelming  nor  pro- 
longed. Her  conservative  audience  did  not  know 
exactly  how  to  accept  her  toilette.  They  were  ac- 
customed to  dignified  concert  gowns,  like  those 
which  Pittsburgh  matrons  (in  those  days!)  wore 
at  their  daughters'  coming-out  teas. 

Kitty's  gown  that  evening  was  really  quite  out- 
rageous —  the  repartee  of  a  conscienceless  Paris- 
—  143  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ian  designer  who  took  her  hint  that  she  wished 
something  that  would  be  entirely  novel  in  the 
States.  Today,  after  we  have  all  of  us,  even 
in  the  ^uttermost  provinces,  been  educated  by 
Baskt  and  the  various  Ballets  Russes,  we  would 
accept  such  a  gown  without  distrust;  but  then 
it  was  a  little  disconcerting,  even  to  the  well- 
disposed.  It  was  constructed  of  a  yard  or  two 
of  green  velvet  —  a  reviling,  shrieking  green 
which  would  have  made  a  fright  of  any  woman 
who  had  not  inextinguishable  beauty  —  and  it 
was  made  without  armholes,  a  device  to  which 
we  were  then  so  unaccustomed  that  it  was  noth- 
ing less  than  alarming.  The  velvet  skirt  split 
back  from  a  transparent  gold-lace  petticoat,  gold 
stockings,  gold  slippers.  The  narrow  train  was, 
apparently,  looped  to  both  ankles,  and  it  kept  curl- 
ing about  her  feet  like  a  serpent's  tail,  turning 
up  its  gold  lining  as  if  it  were  squirming  over  on 
its  back.  It  was  not,  we  felt,  a  costume  in  which 
to  sing  Mozart  and  Handel  and  Beethoven. 

Kitty  sensed  the  chill  in  the  air,  and  it  amused 
her.  She  liked  to  be  thought  a  brilliant  artist  by 
other  artists,  but  by  the  world  at  large  she  liked  to 
be  thought  a  daring  creature.  She  had  every  rea- 
son to  believe,  from  experience  and  from  example, 
that  to  shock  the  great  crowd  was  the  surest  way 
to  get  its  money  and  to  make  her  name  a  house- 
hold word.  Nobody  ever  became  a  household 
—  144  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


word  of  being  an  artist,  surely;  and  you  were  not 
a  thoroughly  paying  proposition  until  your  name 
meant  something  on  the  sidewalk  and  in  the 
barber-shop.  Kitty  studied  her  audience  with  an 
appraising  eye.  She  liked  the  stimulus  of  this 
disapprobation.  As  she  faced  this  hard-shelled 
public  she  felt  keen  and  interested;  she  knew  that 
she  would  give  such  a  recital  as  cannot  often  be 
heard  for  money.  She  nodded  gaily  to  the  young 
man  at  the  piano,  fell  into  an  attitude  of  serious- 
ness, and  began  the  group  of  Beethoven  and  Mo- 
zart songs. 

Though  McKann  would  not  have  admitted  it, 
there  were  really  a  great  many  people  in  the  con- 
cert-hall who  knew  what  the  prodigal  daughter  of 
their  country  was  singing,  and  how  well  she  was 
doing  it.  They  thawed  gradually  under  the 
beauty  of  her  voice  and  the  subtlety  of  her  inter- 
pretation. She  had  sung  seldom  in  concert  then, 
and  they  had  supposed  her  very  dependent  upon 
the  accessories  of  the  opera.  Clean  singing,  fin- 
ished artistry,  were  not  what  they  expected  from 
her.  They  began  to  feel,  even,  the  wayward 
charm  of  her  personality. 

McKann,  who  stared  coldly  up  at  the  balconies 
during  her  first  song,  during  the  second  glanced 
cautiously  at  the  green  apparition  before  him. 
He  was  vexed  with  her  for  having  retained  a  de- 
butante figure.  He  comfortably  classed  all  sing- 
—  145  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ers  —  especially  operatic  singers  —  as  "  fat 
Dutchwomen "  or  u  shifty  Sadies,"  and  Kitty 
would  not  fit  into  his  clever  generalization.  She 
displayed,  under  his  nose,  the  only  kind  of  fig- 
ure he  considered  worth  looking  at  —  that  of  a 
very  young  girl,  supple  and  sinuous  and  quick- 
silverish;  thin,  eager  shoulders,  polished  white 
arms  that  were  nowhere  too  fat  and  nowhere  too 
thin.  McKann  found  it  agreeable  to  look  at 
Kitty,  but  when  he  saw  that  the  authoritative 
Mrs.  Post,  red  as  a  turkey-cock  with  opinions  she 
was  bursting  to  impart,  was  studying  and  apprais- 
ing the  singer  through  her  lorgnette,  he  gazed 
indifferently  out  into  the  house  again.  He  felt 
for  his  watch,  but  his  wife  touched  him  warningly 
with  her  elbow  —  which,  he  noticed,  was  not  at 
all  like  Kitty's. 

When  Miss  Ayrshire  finished  her  first  group  of 
songs,  her  audience  expressed  its  approval  posi- 
tively, but  guardedly.  She  smiled  bewitchingly 
upon  the  people  in  front,  glanced  up  at  the  bal- 
conies, and  then  turned  to  the  company  huddled 
on  the  stage  behind  her.  After  her  gay  and  care- 
less bows,  she  retreated  toward  the  stage  door. 
As  she  passed  McKann,  she  again  brushed  lightly 
against  him,  and  this  time  she  paused  long  enough 
to  glance  down  at  him  and  murmur,  "  Pardon!  " 

In  the  moment  her  bright,  curious  eyes  rested 
upon  him,  McKann  seemed  to  see  himself  as  if  she 
—  146  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


were  holding  a  mirror  up  before  him.  He  be- 
held himself  a  heavy,  solid  figure,  unsuitably  clad 
for  the  time  and  place,  with  a  florid,  square  face, 
well-visored  with  good  living  and  sane  opinions  — 
an  inexpressive  countenance.  Not  a  rock  face,  ex- 
actly, but  a  kind  of  pressed-brick-and-cement  face, 
a  "  business  "  face  upon  which  years  and  feelings 
had  made  no  mark  —  in  which  cocktails  might 
eventually  blast  out  a  few  hollows.  He  had  never 
seen  himself  so  distinctly  in  his  shaving-glass  as  he 
did  in  that  instant  when  Kitty  Ayrshire's  liquid  eye 
held  him,  when  her  bright,  inquiring  glance  roamed 
over  his  person.  After  her  prehensile  train  curled 
over  his  boot  and  she  was  gone,  his  wife  turned  to 
him  and  said  in  the  tone  of  approbation  one  uses 
when  an  infant  manifests  its  groping  intelligence, 
uVery  gracious  of  her,  I'm  sure!"  Mrs.  Post 
nodded  oracularly.  McKann  grunted. 

Kitty  began  her  second  number,  a  group  of  ro- 
mantic German  songs  which  were  altogether  more 
her  affair  than  her  first  number.  When  she 
turned  once  to  acknowledge  the  applause  behind 
her,  she  caught  McKann  in  the  act  of  yawning  be- 
hind his  hand  —  he  of  course  wore  no  gloves  — 
and  he  thought  she  frowned  a  little.  This  did  not 
embarrass  him;  it  somehow  made  him  feel  im- 
portant. When  she  retired  after  the  second  part 
of  the  program,  she  again  looked  him  over  curi- 
ously as  she  passed,  and  she  took  marked  precau- 
—  147  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

tion  that  her  dress  did  not  touch  him.  Mrs.  Post 
and  his  wife  again  commented  upon  her  considera- 
tion. 

The  final  number  was  made  up  of  modern 
French  songs  which  Kitty  sang  enchantingly,  and 
at  last  her  frigid  public  was  thoroughly  aroused. 
While  she  was  coming  back  again  and  again  to 
smile  and  curtsy,  McKann  whispered  to  his  wife 
that  if  there  were  to  be  encores  he  had  better  make 
a  dash  for  his  train. 

"  Not  at  all,"  put  in  Mrs.  Post.  "  Kitty  is  go- 
ing on  the  same  train.  She  sings  in  Faust  at  the 
opera  tomorrow  night,  so  she'll  take  no  chances." 

McKann  once  more  told  himself  how  sorry  he 
felt  for  Post.  At  last  Miss  Ayrshire  returned, 
escorted  by  her  accompanist,  and  gave  the  people 
what  she  of  course  knew  they  wanted:  the  most 
popular  aria  from  the  French  opera  of  which  the 
title-role  had  become  synonymous  with  her  name 
—  an  opera  written  for  her  and  to  her  and  round 
about  her,  by  the  veteran  French  composer  who 
adored  her, —  the  last  and  not  the  palest  flash 
of  his  creative  fire.  This  brought  her  audience 
all  the  way.  They  clamoured  for  more  of  it, 
but  she  was  not  to  be  coerced.  She  had  been 
unyielding  through  storms  to  which  this  was  a 
summer  breeze.  She  came  on  once  more,  shrug- 
ged her  shoulders,  blew  them  a  kiss,  and  was  gone. 
Her  last  smile  was  for  that  uncomfortable  part  of 


A  Gold  Slipper 


her  audience  seated  behind  her,  and  she  looked 
with  recognition  at  McKann  and  his  ladies  as  she 
nodded  good  night  to  the  wooden  chairs. 

McKann  hurried  his  charges  into  the  foyer  by 
the  nearest  exit  and  put  them  into  his  motor. 
Then  he  went  over  to  the  Schenley  to  have  a  glass 
of  beer  and  a  rarebit  before  train-time.  He  had 
not,  he  admitted  to  himself,  been  so  much  bored 
as  he  pretended.  The  minx  herself  was  well 
enough,  but  it  was  absurd  in  his  fellow-townsmen 
to  look  owlish  and  uplifted  about  her.  He  had 
no  rooted  dislike  for  pretty  women;  he  even  didn't 
deny  that  gay  girls  had  their  place  in  the  world, 
but  they  ought  to  be  kept  in  their  place.  He  was 
born  a  Presbyterian,  just  as  he  was  born  a  Mc- 
Kann. He  sat  in  his  pew  in  the  First  Church 
every  Sunday,  and  he  never  missed  a  presbytery 
meeting  when  he  was  in  town.  His  religion  was 
not  very  spiritual,  certainly,  but  it  was  substantial 
and  concrete,  made  up  of  good,  hard  convictions 
and  opinions.  It  had  something  to  do  with 
citizenship,  with  whom  one  ought  to  marry,  with 
the  coal  business  (in  which  his  own  name  was 
powerful) ,  with  the  Republican  party,  and  with  all 
majorities  and  established  precedents.  He  was 
hostile  to  fads,  to  enthusiasms,  to  individualism, 
to  all  changes  except  in  mining  machinery  and  in 
methods  of  transportation. 

His  equanimity  restored  by  his  lunch  at  the 
—  149  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

Schenley,  McKann  lit  a  big  cigar,  got  into  his  taxi, 
and  bowled  off  through  the  sleet. 

There  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  or  a  light  to 
be  seen.  The  ice  glittered  on  the  pavement  and 
on  the  naked  trees.  No  restless  feet  were  abroad. 
At  eleven  o'clock  the  rows  of  small,  comfortable 
houses  looked  as  empty  of  the  troublesome  bubble 
of  life  as  the  Allegheny  cemetery  itself.  Sud- 
denly the  cab  stopped,  and  McKann  thrust  his  head 
out  of  the  window.  A  woman  was  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  street  addressing  his  driver  in 
a  tone  of  excitement.  Over  against  the  curb  a 
lone  electric  stood  despondent  in  the  storm.  The 
young  woman,  her  cloak  blowing'about  her,  turned 
from  the  driver  to  McKann  himself,  speaking 
rapidly  and  somewhat  incoherently. 

"  Could  you  not  be  so  kind  as  to  help  us?  It 
is  Mees  Ayrshire,  the  singer.  The  juice  is  gone 
out  and  we  cannot  move.  We  must  get  to  the 
station.  Mademoiselle  cannot  miss  the  train;  she 
sings  tomorrow  night  in  New  York.  It  is  very 
important.  Could  you  not  take  us  to  the  station 
at  East  Liberty?" 

McKann  opened  the  door.  "  That's  all  right, 
but  you'll  have  to  hurry.  It's  eleven-ten  now. 
You've  only  got  fifteen  minutes  to  make  the  train. 
Tell  her  to  come  along." 

The  maid  drew  back  and  looked  up  at  him  in 
amazement.  "  But,  the  hand-luggage  to  carry, 
—  150  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


and  Mademoiselle  to  walk!     The  street  Is  like 
glass !  " 

McKann  threw  away  his  cigar  and  followed  her. 
He  stood  silent  by  the  door  of  the  derelict,  while 
the  maid  explained  that  she  had  found  help.  The 
driver  had  gone  off  somewhere  to  telephone  for 
a  car.  Miss  Ayrshire  seemed  not  at  all  apprehen- 
sive; she  had  not  doubted  that  a  rescuer  would  be 
forthcoming.  She  moved  deliberately;  out  of  a 
whirl  of  skirts  she  thrust  one  fur-topped  shoe  — 
McKann  saw  the  flash  of  the  gold  stocking  above 
it  —  and  alighted. 

"  So-  kind  of  you!  So  fortunate  for  us!  "  she 
murmured.  One  hand  she  placed  upon  his  sleeve, 
and  in  the  other  she  carried  an  armful  of  roses 
that  had  been  sent  up  to  the  concert  stage.  The 
petals  showered  upon  the  sooty,  sleety  pavement 
as  she  picked  her  way  along.  They  would  be 
lying  there  tomorrow  morning,  and  the  children 
in  those  houses  would  wonder  if  there  had  been  a 
funeral.  The  maid  followed  with  two  leather 
bags.  As  soon  as  he  had  lifted  Kitty  into  his  cab 
she  exclaimed: 

"  My  jewel-case !  I  have  forgotten  it.  It  is 
on  the  back  seat,  please.  I  am  so  careless !  " 

He  dashed  back,  ran  his  hand  along  the  cush- 
ions, and  discovered  a  small  leather  bag.     When 
he  returned  he  found  the  maid  and  the  luggage 
bestowed  on  the  front  seat,  .and  a  place  left  for 
—  151  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

him  on  the  back  seat  beside  Kitty  and  her  flowers. 

"  Shall  we  be  taking  you  far  out  of  your  way?  " 
she  asked  sweetly.  "  I  haven't  an  idea  where  the 
station  is.  I'm  not  even  sure  about  the  name. 
Celine  thinks  it  is  East  Liberty,  but  I  think  it  is 
West  Liberty.  An  odd  name,  anyway.  It  is  a 
Bohemian  quarter,  perhaps?  A  district  where 
the  law  relaxes  a  trifle?  " 

McKann  replied  grimly  that  he  didn't  think  the 
name  referred  to  that  kind  of  liberty. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  sighed  Kitty.  "  I  am 
a  Californian;  that's  the  only  part  of  America  I 
know  very  well,  and  out  there,  when  we  called  a 
place  Liberty  Hill  or  Liberty  Hollow  —  well,  we 
meant  it.  You  will  excuse  me  if  I'm  uncommuni- 
cative, won't  you  ?  I  must  not  talk  in  this  raw  air. 
My  throat  is  sensitive  after  a  long  program." 
She  lay  back  in  her  corner  and  closed  her  eyes. 

When  the  cab  rolled  down  the  incline  at  East 
Liberty  station,  the  New  York  express  was  whis- 
tling in.  A  porter  opened  the  door.  McKann 
sprang  out,  gave  him  a  claim  check  and  his  Pull- 
man ticket,  and  told  him  to  get  his  bag  at  the 
check-stand  and  rush  it  on  that  train. 

Miss  Ayrshire,  having  gathered  up  her  flowers, 
put  out  her  hand  to  take  his  arm.  '  Why,  it's 
you !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  his  face  in  the 
light.  "  What  a  coincidence !  "  She  made  no 
further  move  to  alight,  but  sat  smiling  as  if  she 
—  152  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


had  just  seated  herself  in  a  drawing-room  and 
were  ready  for  talk  and  a  cup  of  tea. 

McKann  caught  her  arm.  "  You  must  hurry, 
Miss  Ayrshire,  if  you  mean  to  catch  that  train. 
It  stops  here  only  a  moment.  Can  you  run?  " 

"  Can  I  run !  "  she  laughed.     "  Try  me !  " 

As  they  raced  through  the  tunnel  and  up  the 
inside  stairway,  McKann  admitted  that  he  had 
never  before  made  a  dash  with  feet  so  quick  and 
sure  stepping  out  beside  him.  The  white-furred 
boots  chased  each  other  like  lambs  at  play,  the 
gold  stockings  flashed  like  the  spokes  of  a  bicycle 
wheel  in  the  sun.  They  reached  the  door  of  Miss 
Ayrshire's  state-room  just  as  the  train  began  to 
pull  out.  McKann  was  ashamed  of  the  way  he 
was  panting,  for  Kitty's  breathing  was  as  soft  and 
regular  as  when  she  was  reclining  on  the  back  seat 
of  his  taxi.  It  had  somehow  run  in  his  head  that 
all  these  stage  women  were  a  poor  lot  physically 
—  unsound,  overfed  creatures,  like  canaries  that 
are  kept  in  a  cage  and  stuffed  with  song-restorer. 
He  retreated  to  escape  her  thanks.  "  Good 
night!  Pleasant  journey!  Pleasant  dreams!" 
With  a  friendly  nod  in  Kitty's  direction  he  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

He  was  somewhat  surprised  to  find  his  own 

bag,  his  Pullman  ticket  in  the  strap,  on  the  seat 

just  outside  Kitty's  door.     But  there  was  nothing 

strange  about  it.     He  had  got  the  last  section  left 

—  153  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

on  the  train,  No.  13,  next  the  drawing-room. 
Every  other  berth  in  the  car  was  made  up.  He 
was  just  starting  to  look  for  the  porter  when  the 
door  of  the  state-room  opened  and  Kitty  Ayrshire 
came  out.  She  seated  herself  carelessly  in  the 
front  seat  beside  his  bag. 

"  Please  talk  to  me  a  little,"  she  said  coaxingly. 
"  I'm  always  wakeful  after  I  sing,  and  I  have  to 
hunt  some  one  to  talk  to.  Celine  and  I  get  so 
tired  of  each  other.  We  can  speak  very  low,  and 
we  shall  not  disturb  any  one."  She  crossed  her 
feet  and  rested  her  elbow  on  his  Gladstone. 
Though  she  still  wore  her  gold  slippers  and  stock- 
ings, she  did  not,  he  thanked  Heaven,  have  on  her 
concert  gown,  but  a  very  demure  black  velvet 
with  some  sort  of  pearl  trimming  about  the  neck. 
"  Wasn't  it  funny,"  she  proceeded,  "  that  it  hap- 
pened to  be  you  who  picked  me  up?  I  wanted  a 
word  with  you,  anyway." 

McKann  smiled  in  a  way  that  meant  he  wasn't 
being  taken  in.  "  Did  you  ?  We  are  not  very  old 
acquaintances." 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  But  you  disapproved  to- 
night, and  I  thought  I  was  singing  very  well. 
You  are  very  critical  in  such  matters?  " 

He  had  been  standing,  but  now  he  sat  down. 
"  My  dear  young  lady,  I  am  not  critical  at  all.  I 
know  nothing  about  4  such  matters.'  ' 

"  And  care  less?  "  she  said  for  him.  "  Well, 
—  154  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


then  we  know  where  we  arc,  in  so  far  as  that  is 
concerned.  What  did  displease  you?  My  gown, 
perhaps?  It  may  seem  a  little  outre  here,  but  it's 
the  sort  of  thing  all  the  imaginative  designers 
abroad  are  doing.  You  like  the  English  sort  of 
concert  gown  better?  " 

"  About  gowns,"  said  McKann,  "  I  know  even 
less  than  about  music.  If  I  looked  uncomforta- 
ble, it  was  probably  because  I  was  uncomfortable. 
The  seats  were  bad  and  the  lights  were  annoy- 
ing." 

Kitty  looked  up  with  solicitude.  "  I  was  sorry 
they  sold  those  seats.  I  don't  like  to  make  people 
uncomfortable  in  any  way.  Did  the  lights  give 
you  a  headache?  They  are  very  trying.  They 
burn  one's  eyes  out  in  the  end,  I  believe."  She 
paused  and  waved  the  porter  away  with  a  smile  as 
he  came  toward  them.  Half-clad  Pittsburghers 
were  tramping  up  and  down  the  aisle,  casting  side- 
long glances  at  McKann  and  his  companion. 
"  How  much  better  they  look  with  all  their  clothes 
on,"  she  murmured.  Then,  turning  directly  to 
McKann  again :  u  I  saw  you  were  not  well 
seated,  but  I  felt  something  quite  hostile  and  per- 
sonal. You  were  displeased  with  me.  Doubtless 
many  people  are,  but  I  seldom  get  an  opportu- 
nity to  question  them.  It  would  be  nice  if  you 
took  the  trouble  to  tell  me  why  you  were  dis- 
pleased." 

—  155  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

She  spoke  frankly,  pleasantly,  without  a  shadow 
of  challenge  or  hauteur.  She  did  not  seem  to  be 
angling  for  compliments.  McKann  settled  him- 
self in  his  seat.  He  thought  he  would  try  her  out. 
She  had  come  for  it,  and  he  would  let  her  have  it. 
He  found,  however,  that  it  was  harder  to  formu- 
late the  grounds  of  his  disapproval  than  he  would 
have  supposed.  Now  that  he  sat  face  to  face  with 
her,  now  that  she  was  leaning  against  his  bag,  he 
had  no  wish  to  hurt  her. 

"  I'm  a  hard-headed  business  man,"  he  said 
evasively,  "  and  I  don't  much  believe  in  any  of  you 
fluffy-ruffles  people.  I  have  a  sort  of  natural  dis- 
trust of  them  all,  the  men  more  than  the  women." 

She  looked  thoughtful.  "  Artists,  you  mean?  " 
drawing  her  words  slowly.  "  What  is  your  busi- 
ness?" 

"  Coal." 

"  I  don't  feel  any  natural  distrust  of  business 
men,  and  I  know  ever  so  many.  I  don't  know  any 
coal-men,  but  I  think  I  could  become  very  much 
interested  in  coal.  Am  I  larger-minded  than 
you?" 

McKann  laughed.  "  I  don't  think  you  know 
when  you  are  interested  or  when  you  are  not.  I 
don't  believe  you  know  what  it  feels  like  to  be 
really  interested.  There  is  so  much  fake  about 
your  profession.  It's  an  affectation  on  both  sides. 
I  know  a  great  many  of  the  people  who  went  to 


A  Gold  Slipper 


hear  you  tonight,  and  I  know  that  most  of  them 
neither  know  nor  care  anything  about  music. 
They  imagine  they  do,  because  it's  supposed  to  be 
the  proper  thing." 

Kitty  sat  upright  and  looked  interested.  She 
was  certainly  a  lovely  creature  —  the  only  one  of 
her  tribe  he  had  ever  seen  that  he  would  cross  the 
street  to  see  again.  Those  were  remarkable  eyes 
she  had  —  curious,  penetrating,  restless,  some- 
what impudent,  but  not  at  all  dulled  by  self-con- 
ceit. 

"  But  isn't  that  so  in  everything?  "  she  cried. 
"  How  many  of  your  clerks  are  honest  because  of 
a  fine,  individual  sense  of  honour?  They  are 
honest  because  it  is  the  accepted  rule  of  good  con- 
duct in  business.  Do  you  know  " —  she  looked 
at  him  squarely  — "  I  thought  you  would  have 
something  quite  definite  to  say  to  me;  but  this  is 
funny-paper  stuff,  the  sort  of  objection  I'd  expect 
from  your  office-boy." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  it  silly  for  a  lot  of  peo- 
ple to  get  together  and  pretend  to  enjoy  something 
they  know  nothing  about?  " 

"  Of  course  I  think  it  silly,  but  that's  the  way 
God  made  audiences.  Don't  people  go  to  church 
in  exactly  the  same  way?  If  there  were  a  spirit- 
ual-pressure test-machine  at  the  door,  I  suspect  not 
many  of  you  would  get  to  your  pews." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  go  to  church?  " 
—  157  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Oh,  people  with 
these  old,  ready-made  opinions  usually  go  to 
church.  But  you  can't  evade  me  like  that."  She 
tapped  the  edge  of  his  seat  with  the  toe  of  her  gold 
slipper.  "  You  sat  there  all  evening,  glaring  at 
me  as  if  you  could  eat  me  alive.  Now  I  give  you 
a  chance  to  state  your  objections,  and  you  merely 
criticize  my  audience.  What  is  it?  Is  it  merely 
that  you  happen  to  dislike  my  personality?  In 
that  case,  of  course,  I  won't  press  you." 

"  No,"  McKann  frowned,  "  I  perhaps  dislike 
your  professional  personality.  As  I  told  you,  I 
have  a  natural  distrust  of  your  variety." 

"Natural,  I  wonder?"  Kitty  murmured.  "I 
don't  see  why  you  should  naturally  dislike  singers 
any  more  than  I  naturally  dislike  coal-men.  I 
don't  classify  people  by  their  occupations.  Doubt- 
less I  should  find  some  coal-men  repulsive,  and  you 
may  find  some  singers  so.  But  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that,  at  least,  I'm  one  of  the  less  repel- 
lent." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  McKann  laughed,  "  and 
you're  a  shrewd  woman  to  boot.  But  you  are,  all 
of  you,  according  to  my  standards,  light  people. 
You're  brilliant,  some  of  you,  but  you've  no 
depth." 

Kitty  seemed  to  assent,  with  a  dive  of  her  girl- 
ish head.  "  Well,  it's  a  merit  in  some  things  to 
be  heavy,  and  in  others  to  be  light.  Some  things 


A  Gold  Slipper 


are  meant  to  go  deep,  and  others  to  go  high.  Do 
you  want  all  the  women  in  the  world  to  be  pro- 
found ?" 

u  You  are  all,"  he  went  on  steadily,  watching 
her  with  indulgence,  "  fed  on  hectic  emotions. 
You  are  pampered.  You  don't  help  to  carry  the 
burdens  of  the  world.  You  are  self-indulgent  and 
appetent." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  she  assented,  with  a  candour 
which  he  did  not  expect.  "  Not  all  artists  are, 
but  I  am.  Why  not?  If  I  could  once  get  a  con- 
vincing statement  as  to  why  I  should  not  be  self- 
indulgent,  I  might  change  my  ways.  As  for  the 
burdens  of  the  world  — "  Kitty  rested  her  chin 
on  her  clasped  hands  and  looked  thoughtful. 
"  One  should  give  pleasure  to  others.  My  dear 
sir,  granting  that  the  great  majority  of  people 
can't  enjoy  anything  very  keenly,  you'll  admit  that 
I  give  pleasure  to  many  more  people  than  you  do. 
One  should  help  others  who  are  less  fortunate; 
at  present  I  am  supporting  just  eight  people,  be- 
sides those  I  hire.  There  was  never  another 
family  in  California  that  had  so  many  cripples  and 
hard-luckers  as  that  into  which  I  had  the  honour 
to  be  born.  The  only  ones  who  could  take  care 
of  themselves  were  ruined  by  the  San  Francisco 
earthquake  some  time  ago.  One  should  make  per- 
sonal sacrifices.  I  do;  I  give  money  and  time  and 
effort  to  talented  students.  Oh,  I  give  something 
—  159  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

much  more  than  that !  something  that  you  prob- 
ably have  never  given  to  any  one.  I  give,  to  the 
really  gifted  ones,  my  wish,  my  desire,  my  light, 
if  I  have  any;  and  that,  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman, 
is  like  giving  one's  blood!  It's  the  kind  of  thing 
you  prudent  people  never  give.  That  is  what  was 
in  the  box  of  precious  ointment."  Kitty  threw 
off  her  fervour  with  a  slight  gesture,  as  if  it  were 
a  scarf,  and  leaned  back,  tucking  her  slipper 
up  on  the  edge  of  his  seat.  "  If  you  saw  the 
houses  I  keep  up,"  she  sighed,  "  and  the  people  I 
employ,  and  the  motor-cars  I  run  —  And,  after 
all,  I've  only  this  to  do  it  with."  She  indicated 
her  slender  person,  which  Marshall  could  almost 
have  broken  in  two  with  his  bare  hands. 

She  was,  he  thought,  very  much  like  any  other 
charming  woman,  except  that  she  was  more  so. 
Her  familiarity  was  natural  and  simple.  She  was 
at  ease  because  she  was  not  afraid  of  him  or  of 
herself,  or  of  certain  half-clad  acquaintances  of 
his  who  had  been  wandering  up  and  down  the  car 
oftener  than  was  necessary.  Well,  he  was  not 
afraid,  either. 

Kitty  put  her  arms  over  her  head  and  sighed 
again,  feeling  the  smooth  part  in  her  black  hair. 
Her  head  was  small  —  capable  of  great  agitation, 
like  a  bird's;  or  of  great  resignation,  like  a  nun's. 
u  I  can't  see  why  I  shouldn't  be  self-indulgent, 
when  I  indulge  others.  I  can't  understand  your 
—  1 60  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


equivocal  scheme  of  ethics.  Now  I  can  under- 
stand Count  Tolstoy's,  perfectly.  I  had  a  long 
talk  with  him  once,  about  his  book  '  What  is  Art?  ' 
As  nearly  as  I  could  get  it,  he  believes  that  we  are 
a  race  who  can  exist  only  by  gratifying  appetites; 
the  appetites  are  evil,  and  the  existence  they  carry 
on  is  evil.  We  were  always  sad,  he  says,  without 
knowing  why;  even  in  the  Stone  Age.  In  some 
miraculous  way  a  divine  ideal  was  disclosed  to  us, 
directly  at  variance  with  our  appetites.  It  gave 
us  a  new  craving,  which  we  could  only  satisfy  by 
starving  all  the  other  hungers  in  us.  Happiness 
lies  in  ceasing  to  be  and  to  cause  being,  because  the 
thing  revealed  to  us  is  dearer  than  any  existence 
our  appetites  can  ever  get  for  us.  I  can  under- 
stand that.  It's  something  one  often  feels  in  art. 
It  is  even  the  subject  of  the  greatest  of  all  operas, 
which,  because  I  can  never  hope  to  sing  it,  I  love 
more  than  all  the  others."  Kitty  pulled  herself 
up.  "  Perhaps  you  agree  with  Tolstoy?  "  she 
added  languidly. 

uNo;  I  think  he's  a  crank,"  said  McKann, 
cheerfully. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  crank?  " 

"  I  mean  an  extremist." 

Kitty  laughed.  "Weighty  word!  You'll  al- 
ways have  a  world  full  of  people  who  keep  to  the 
golden  mean.  Why  bother  yourself  about  me  and 
Tolstoy?" 

—  161  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

"  I  don't,  except  when  you  bother  me/' 

"  Poor  man !  It's  true  this  isn't  your  fault. 
Still,  you  did  provoke  it  by  glaring  at  me.  Why 
did  you  go  to  the  concert?  " 

"  I  was  dragged." 

"  I  might  have  known !  "  she  chuckled,  and 
shook  her  head.  "  No,  you  don't  give  me  any 
good  reasons.  Your  morality  seems  to  me  the 
compromise  of  cowardice,  apologetic  and  sneak- 
ing. When  righteousness  becomes  alive  and 
burning,  you  hate  it  as  much  as  you  do  beauty. 
You  want  a  little  of  each  in  your  life,  perhaps  — 
adulterated,  sterilized,  with  the  sting  taken  out. 
It's  true  enough  they  are  both  fearsome  things 
when  they  get  loose  in  the  world;  they  don't,  of- 
ten." 

McKann  hated  tall  talk.  "  My  views  on 
women,"  he  said  slowly,  "  are  simple." 

"  Doubtless,"  Kitty  responded  dryly,  "  but  are 
they  consistent?  Do  you  apply  them  to  your 
stenographers  as  well  as  to  me?  I  take  it  for 
granted  you  have  unmarried  stenographers. 
Their  position,  economically,  is  the  same  as  mine." 

McKann  studied  the  toe  of  her  shoe.  "  With 
a  woman,  everything  comes  back  to  one  thing." 
His  manner  was  judicial. 

She  laughed  indulgently.  "  So  we  are  getting 
down  to  brass  tacks,  eh?  I  have  beaten  you  in 
argument,  and  now  you  are  leading  trumps." 

—  162— 


A  Gold 


She  pot  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  her  fins 
parted  in  a  half-yawn.  "  Does  everything  come 
back  to  one  thing?  I  wish  I  knew!  It's  more 

should  have  been  very  fike  your  stenographers  — 
if  they  are  good  ones.  Whatever  I  was,  I  would 
have  been  a  good  one.  I  think  people  are 
••nil  alike.  You  are  more  Afferent  than  any 
I  have  met  for  some  time,  but  I  know  that  there 
are  a  great  many  more  at  home  fike  you.  And 
£Vdi  yon  — —  I  believe  there  is  a  real  ut^tuit 

the  trouble  of  thinker     If  you  and  I 

mm 
to  a  simple  and 


Fm  neither   a   coward  nor   a   shirk. 
You  would  find,  if  yon  had  to  undertake  any  en- 

^^^••>— ^ .->  ^-      _  J     J  »  __   _,  ^ "    T"  ^      "  »^,  *.*>  ^  —      _  _  —      M 

terprtse  or  Ganger  or  amenity  wi  tn  a  woman,  one 
iheic  are  several  auafifications  ouite  as  •••p'MftaMt 
as  the  one  to  which  you  doubtless  refer." 

McRann  felt  ncnrooshr  for  his  watch-chain. 
"  Of  course,"  he  brought  out,  "  I  am  not  laymg 
down  any  generalizations —  His  brows 


"  Oh,  aren't  yon?  "  umiiumcd  Kitty.  '  Then 
I  totally  misunderstood.  But  remember  " — hold- 
ing up  a  finger  — "  it  is  you,  not  I,  who  are  afraid 
to  pursue  this  subject  further.  Now,  111  tell  JOB 
She  leaned  forward  and  dasped  her 
-163- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

slim,  white  hands  about  her  velvet  knee.  "  I  am 
as  much  a  victim  of  these  ineradicable  prejudices 
as  you.  Your  stenographer  seems  to  you  a  better 
sort.  Well,  she  does  to  me.  Just  because  her 
life  is,  presumably,  greyer  than  mine,  she  seems 
better.  My  mind  tells  me  that  dulness,  and  a 
mediocre  order  of  ability,  and  poverty,  are  not 
in  themselves  admirable  things.  Yet  in  my  heart 
I  always  feel  that  the  sales-women  in  shops  and 
the  working  girls  in  factories  are  more  meritorious 
than  I.  Many  of  them,  with  my  opportunities, 
would  be  more  selfish  than  I  am.  Some  of  them, 
with  their  own  opportunities,  are  more  selfish. 
Yet  I  make  this  sentimental  genuflection  before 
the  nun  and  the  charwoman.  Tell  me,  haven't 
you  any  weakness?  Isn't  there  any  foolish  nat- 
ural thing  that  unbends  you  a  trifle  and  makes  you 
feel  gay?" 

"  I  like  to  go  fishing." 

"•To  see  how  many  fish  you  can  catch?  " 

"  No,  I  like  the  woods  and  the  weather.  I 
like  to  play  a  fish  and  work  hard  for  him.  I  like 
the  pussy-willows  and  the  cold;  and  the  sky, 
whether  it's  blue  or  grey  —  night  coming  on,  every 
thing  about  it." 

He   spoke   devoutly,   and   Kitty  watched  him 

through  half-closed  eyes.     "  And  you  like  to  feel 

that  there  are  light-minded  girls  like  me,  who  only 

care  about  the  inside  of  shops  and  theatres  and 

—  164  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


hotels,  eh  ?  You  amuse  me,  you  and  your  fish ! 
But  I  mustn't  keep  you  any  longer.  Haven't  I 
given  you  every  opportunity  to  state  your  case 
against  me?  I  thought  you  would  have  more  to 
say  for  yourself.  Do  you  know,  I  believe  it's  not 
a  case  you  have  at  all,  but  a  grudge.  I  believe 
you  are  envious;  that  you'd  like  to  be  a  tenor,  and 
a  perfect  lady-killer !  "  She  rose,  smiling,  and 
paused  with  her  hand  on  the  door  of  her  state- 
room. "  Anyhow,  thank  you  for  a  pleasant  even- 
ing. And,  by  the  way,  dream  of  me  tonight,  and 
not  of  either  of  those  ladies  who  sat  beside  you. 
It  does  not  matter  much  whom  we  live  with  in 
this  world,  but  it  matters  a  great  deal  whom  we 
dream  of."  She  noticed  his  bricky  flush.  "  You 
are  very  nai'f,  after  all,  but,  oh,  so  cautious !  You 
are  naturally  afraid  of  everything  new,  just  as  I 
naturally  want  to  try  everything :  new  people,  new 
religions  —  new  miseries,  even.  If  only  there 
were  more  new  things  —  If  only  you  were  really 
new !  I  might  learn  something.  I'm  like  the 
Queen  of  Sheba  —  I'm  not  above  learning.  But 
you,  my  friend,  would  be  afraid  to  try  a  new  shav- 
ing soap.  It  isn't  gravitation  that  holds  the 
world  in  place;  it's  the  lazy,  obese  cowardice  of 
the  people  on  it.  All  the  same  " —  taking  his 
hand  and  smiling  encouragingly  — "  I'm  going  to 
haunt  you  a  little.  Adios!  " 

When  Kitty  entered  her  state-room,  Celine,  in 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

her  dressing-gown,  was  nodding  by  the  window. 

"  Mademoiselle  found  the  fat  gentleman  inter- 
esting? "  she  asked.  "  It  is  nearly  one." 

"  Negatively  interesting.  His  kind  always  say 
the  same  thing.  If  I  could  find  one  really  intel- 
ligent man  who  held  his  views,  I  should  adopt 
them." 

"  Monsieur  did  not  look  like  an  original,"  mur- 
mured Celine,  as  she  began  to  take  down  her  lady's 
hair. 

McKann  slept  heavily,  as  usual,  and  the  porter 
had  to  shake  him  in  the  morning.  He  sat  up  in 
his  berth,  and,  after  composing  his  hair  with  his 
fingers,  began  to  hunt  about  for  his  clothes.  As 
he  put  up  the  window-blind  some  bright  object 
in  the  little  hammock  over  his  bed  caught  the  sun- 
light and  glittered.  He  stared  and  picked  up  a 
delicately  turned  gold  slipper. 

"Minx!  hussy!"  he  ejaculated.  "  All  that 
tall  talk  — !  Probably  got  it  from  some  man  who 
hangs  about;  learned  it  off  like  a  parrot.  Did  she 
poke  this  in  here  herself  last  night,  or  did  she 
send  that  sneak-faced  Frenchwoman?  I  like  her 
nerve !  "  He  wondered  whether  he  might  have 
been  breathing  audibly  when  the  intruder  thrust 
her  head  between  his  curtains.  He  was  conscious 
that  he  did  not  look  a  Prince  Charming  in  his 
sleep.  He  dressed  as  fast  as  he  could,  and,  when 
—  166  — 


A  Gold  Slipper 


he  was  ready  to  go  to  the  wash-room,  glared  at 
the  slipper.  If  the  porter  should  start  to  make 
up  his  berth  in  his  absence  —  He  caught  the 
slipper,  wrapped  it  in  his  pajama  jacket,  and  thrust 
it  into  his  bag.  He  escaped  from  the  train  with- 
out seeing  his  tormentor  again. 

Later  McKann  threw  the  slipper  into  the  waste- 
basket  in  his  room  at  the  Knickerbocker,  but  the 
chambermaid,  seeing  that  it  was  new  and  mate- 
less,  thought  there  must  be  a  mistake,  and  placed 
it  in  his  clothes-closet.  He  found  it  there  when 
he  returned  from  the  theatre  that  evening.  Con- 
siderably mellowed  by  food  and  drink  and  cheerful 
company,  he  took  the  slipper  in  his  hand  and  de- 
cided to  keep  it  as  a  reminder  that  absurd  things 
could  happen  to  people  of  the  most  clocklike  de- 
portment. When  he  got  back  to  Pittsburgh,  he 
stuck  it  in  a  lock-box  in  his  vault,  safe  from  prying 
clerks. 

McKann  has  been  ill  for  five  years  now,  poor 
fellow!  He  still  goes  to  the  office,  because  it  is 
the  only  place  that  interests  him,  but  his  partners 
do  most  of  the  work,  and  his  clerks  find  him  sadly 
changed  — "  morbid,"  they  call  his  state  of  mind. 
He  has  had  the  pine-trees  in  his  yard  cut  down  be- 
cause they  remind  him  of  cemeteries.  On  Sun- 
days or  holidays,  when  the  office  is  empty,  and  he 
takes  his  will  or  his  insurance-policies  out  of  his 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

lock-box,  he  often  puts  the  tarnished  gold  slipper 
on  his  desk  and  looks  at  it.  Somehow  it  suggests 
life  to  his  tired  mind,  as  his  pine-trees  suggested 
death  —  life  and  youth.  When  he  drops  over 
some  day,  his  executors  will  be  puzzled  by  the 
slipper. 

As  for  Kitty  Ayrshire,  she  has  played  so  many 
'jokes,  practical  and  impractical,  since  then,  that 
she  has  long  ago  forgotten  the  night  when  she 
threw  away  a  slipper  to  be  a  thorn  in  the  side  of 
a  just  man. 


—  168  — 


Scandal 

KITTY  AYRSHIRE  had  a  cold,  a  persis- 
tent inflammation  of  the  vocal  cords  which 
defied  the  throat  specialist.  Week  after 
week  her  name  was  posted  at  the  Opera,  and  week 
after  week  it  was  canceled,  and  the  name  of  one 
of  her  rivals  was  substituted.  For  nearly  two 
months  she  had  been  deprived  of  everything  she 
liked,  even  of  the  people  she  liked,  and  had  been 
shut  up  until  she  had  come  to  hate  the  glass  win- 
dows between  her  and  the  world,  and  the  wintry 
stretch  of  the  Park  they  looked  out  upon.  She 
was  losing  a  great  deal  of  money,  and,  what  was 
worse,  she  was  losing  life;  days  of  which  she 
wanted  to  make  the  utmost  were  slipping  by,  and 
nights  which  were  to  have  crowned  the  days,  nights 
of  incalculable  possibilities,  were  being  stolen 
from  her  by  women  for  whom  she  had  no  great 
affection.  At  first  she  had  been  courageous,  but 
the  strain  of  prolonged  uncertainty  was  telling  on 
her,  and  her  nervous  condition  did  not  improve 
her  larynx.  Every  morning  Miles  Creedon 
looked  down  her  throat,  only  to  put  her  off  with 
evasions,  to  pronounce  improvement  that  appar- 
—  169  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ently  never  got  her  anywhere,  to  say  that  tomor- 
row he  might  be  able  to  promise  something  defi- 
nite. 

Her  illness,  of  course,  gave  rise  to  rumours  — 
rumours  that  she  had  lost  her  voice,  that  at  some 
time  last  summer  she  must  have  lost  her  discre- 
tion. Kitty  herself  was  frightened  by  the  way  in 
which  this  cold  hung  on.  She  had  had  many  sharp 
illnesses  in  her  life,  but  always,  before  this,  she 
had  rallied  quickly.  Was  she  beginning  to  lose 
her  resiliency?  Was  she,  by  any  cursed  chance, 
facing  a  bleak  time  when  she  would  have  to  cher- 
ish herself?  She  protested,  as  she  wandered 
about  her  sunny,  many-windowed  rooms  on  the 
tenth  floor,  that  if  she  was  going  to  have  to  live 
frugally,  she  wouldn't  live  at  all.  She  wouldn't 
live  on  any  terms  but  the  very  generous  ones  she 
had  always  known.  She  wasn't  going  to  hoard 
her  vitality.  It  must  be  there  when  she  wanted 
it,  be  ready  for  any  strain  she  chose  to  put  upon 
it,  let  her  play  fast  and  loose  with  it;  and  then,  if 
necessary,  she  would  be  ill  for  a  while  and  pay  the 
piper.  But  be  systematically  prudent  and  par- 
simonious she  would  not. 

When  she  attempted  to  deliver  all  this  to  Doc- 
tor Creedon,  he  merely  put  his  finger  on  her  lips 
and  said  they  would  discuss  these  things  when  she 
could  talk  without  injuring  her  throat.  He  al- 
lowed her  to  see  no  one  except  the  Director  of  the 
—  170  — 


Scandal 


Opera,  who  did  not  shine  in  conversation  and  was 
not  apt  to  set  Kitty  going.  The  Director  was  a 
glum  fellow,  indeed,  but  during  this  calamitous 
time  he  had  tried  to  be  soothing,  and  he  agreed 
with  Creedon  that  she  must  not  risk  a  premature 
appearance.  Kitty  was  tormented  by  a  suspicion 
that  he  was  secretly  backing  the  little  Spanish 
woman  who  had  sung  many  of  her  parts  since  she 
had  been  ill.  He  furthered  the  girl's  interests 
because  his  wife  had  a  very  special  consideration 
for  her,  and  Madame  had  that  consideration  be- 
cause —  But  that  was  too  long  and  too  dreary 
a  story  to  follow  out  in  one's  mind.  Kitty  felt  a 
tonsilitis  disgust  for  opera-house  politics,  which, 
when  she  was  in  health,  she  rather  enjoyed,  being 
no  mean  strategist  herself.  The  worst  of  being 
ill  was  that  it  made  so  many  things  and  people  look 
base. 

She  was  always  afraid  of  being  disillusioned. 
She  wished  to  believe  that  everything  for  sale  in 
Vanity  Fair  was  worth  the  advertised  price. 
When  she  ceased  to  believe  in  these  delights,  she 
told  herself,  her  pulling  power  would  decline  and 
she  would  go  to  pieces.  In  some  way  the  chill  of 
her  disillusionment  would  quiver  through  the  long, 
black  line  which  reached  from  the  box-office  down 
to  Seventh  Avenue  on  nights  when  she  sang. 
They  shivered  there  in  the  rain  and  cold,  all  those 
people,  because  they  loved  to  believe  in  her  inex- 
—  171  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

tinguishable  zest.  She  was  no  prouder  of  what 
she  drew  in  the  boxes  than  she  was  of  that  long, 
oscillating  tail;  little  fellows  in  thin  coats,  Italians, 
Frenchmen,  South-Americans,  Japanese. 

When  she  had  been  cloistered  like  a  Trappist 
for  six  weeks,  with  nothing  from  the  outside  world 
but  notes  and  flowers  and  disquieting  morning 
papers,  Kitty  told  Miles  Creedon  that  she  could 
not  endure  complete  isolation  any  longer. 

"  I  simply  cannot  live  through  the  evenings. 
They  have  become  horrors  to  me.  Every  night  is 
the  last  night  of  a  condemned  man.  I  do  nothing 
but  cry,  and  that  makes  my  throat  worse.'1 

Miles  Creedon,  handsomest  of  his  profession, 
was  better  looking  with  some  invalids  than  with 
others.  His  athletic  figure,  his  red  cheeks,  and 
splendid  teeth  always  had  a  cheering  effect  upon 
this  particular  patient,  who  hated  anything  weak 
or  broken. 

"  What  can  I  do,  my  dear?  What  do  you 
wish?  Shall  I  come  and  hold  your  lovely  hand 
from  eight  to  ten?  You  have  only  to  suggest  it." 

"  Would  you  do  that,  even?  No,  caro  mio,  I 
take  far  too  much  of  your  time  as  it  is.  For  an 
age  now  you  have  been  the  only  man  in  the  world 
to  me,  and  you  have  been  charming!  But  the 
world  is  big,  and  I  am  missing  it.  Let  some  one 
come  tonight,  some  one  interesting,  but  not  too 
interesting.  Pierce  Tevis,  for  instance.  He  is 
—  172  — 


Scandal 


just  back  from  Paris.  Tell  the  nurse  I  may  see 
him  for  an  hour  tonight,"  Kitty  finished  plead- 
ingly, and  put  her  fingers  on  the  doctor's  sleeve. 
He  looked  down  at  them  and  smiled  whimsically. 

Like  other  people,  he  was  weak  to  Kitty  Ayr- 
shire. He  would  do  for  her  things  that  he  would 
do  for  no  one  else ;  would  break  any  engagement, 
desert  a  dinner-table,  leaving  an  empty  place  and 
an  offended  hostess,  to  sit  all  evening  in  Kitty's 
dressing-room,  spraying  her  throat  and  calming 
her  nerves,  using  every  expedient  to  get  her 
through  a  performance.  He  had  studied  her 
voice  like  a  singing  master;  knew  all  of  its  idio- 
syncracies  and  the  emotional  and  nervous  pertur- 
bations which  affected  it.  When  it  was  permissi- 
ble, sometimes  when  it  was  not  permissible,  he 
indulged  her  caprices.  On  this  sunny  morning 
her  wan,  disconsolate  face  moved  him. 

"  Yes,  you  may  see  Tevis  this  evening  if  you 
will  assure  me  that  you  will  not  shed  one  tear  for 
twenty-four  hours.  I  may  depend  on  your 
word?"  He  rose,  and  stood  before  the  deep 
couch  on  which  his  patient  reclined.  Her  arch 
look  seemed  to  say,  "  On  what  could  you  depend 
more?"  Creedon  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 
"  If  I  find  you  worse  tomorrow  — " 

He  crossed  to  the  writing-table  and  began  to 
separate  a  bunch  of  tiny  flame-coloured  rosebuds. 
"  May  I?"  Selecting  one,  he  sat  down  on  the 

—  173  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

chair  from  which  he  had  lately  risen,  and  leaned 
forward  while  Kitty  pinched  the  thorns  from  the 
stem  and  arranged  the  flower  in  his  buttonhole. 

4  Thank  you.  I  like  to  wear  one  of  yours. 
Now  I  must  be  off  to  the  hospital.  I've  a  nasty 
little  operation  to  do  this  morning.  I'm  glad  it's 
not  you.  Shall  I  telephone  Tevis  about  this  eve- 
ning ?" 

Kitty  hesitated".  Her  eyes  ran  rapidly  about, 
seeking  a  likely  pretext.  Creedon  laughed. 

11  Oh,  I  see.  You've  already  asked  him  to 
come.  You  were  so  sure  of  me !  Two  hours  in 
bed  after  lunch,  with  all  the  windows  open,  re- 
member. Read  something  diverting,  but  not  ex- 
citing; some  homely  British  author;  nothing  aban- 
donne.  And  don't  make  faces  at  me.  Until  to- 
morrow !  " 

When  her  charming  doctor  had  disappeared 
through  the  doorway,  Kitty  fell  back  on  her  cush- 
ions and  closed  her  eyes.  Her  mocking-bird,  ex- 
cited by  the  sunlight,  was  singing  in  his  big  gilt 
cage,  and  a  white  lilac-tree  that  had  come  that 
morning  was  giving  out  its  faint  sweetness  in  the 
warm  room.  But  Kitty  looked  paler  and  wearier 
than  when  the  doctor  was  with  her.  Even  with 
him  she  rose  to  her  part  just  a  little;  couldn't  help 
it.  And  he  took  his  share  of  her  vivacity  and 
sparkle,  like  every  one  else.  He  believed  that  his 
presence  was  soothing  to  her.  But  he  admired; 
—  174  — 


Scandal 


and  whoever  admired,  blew  on  the  flame,  however 
lightly. 

The  mocking-bird  was  in  great  form  this  morn- 
ing. He  had  the  best  bird-voice  she  had  ever 
heard,  and  Kitty  wished  there  were  some  way  to 
note  down  his  improvisations;  but  his  intervals 
were  not  expressible  in  any  scale  she  knew. 
Parker  White  had  brought  him  to  her,  from  Ojo 
Caliente,  in  New  Mexico,  where  he  had  been 
trained  in  the  pine  forests  by  an  old  Mexican  and 
an  ill-tempered,  lame  master-bird,  half  thrush, 
that  taught  young  birds  to  sing.  This  morning; 
in  his  song  there  were  flashes  of  silvery  Southern 
springtime;  they  opened  inviting  roads  of  memory. 
In  half  an  hour  he  had  sung  his  disconsolate  mis- 
tress to  sleep. 

That  evening  Kitty  sat  curled  up  on  the  deep 
couch  before  the  fire,  awaiting  Pierce  Tevis.  Her 
costume  was  folds  upon  folds  of  diaphanous  white 
over  equally  diaphanous  rose,  with  a  line  of  white 
fur  about  her  neck.  Her  beautiful  arms  were 
bare.  Her  tiny  Chinese  slippers  were  embroid- 
ered so  richly  that  they  resembled  the  painted 
porcelain  of  old  vases.  She  looked  like  a  sultan's 
youngest,  newest  bride;  a  beautiful  little  toy- 
woman,  sitting  at  one  end  of  the  long  room  which 
composed  about  her, —  which,  in  the  soft  light, 
seemed  happily  arranged  for  her.  There  were 
flowers  everywhere:  rose-trees;  camellia-bushes, 
—  175  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

red  and  white;  the  first  forced  hyacinths  of  the 
season;  a  feathery  mimosa-tree,  tall  enough  to 
stand  under. 

The  long  front  of  Kitty's  study  was  all  win- 
dows. At  one  end  was  the  fireplace,  before  which 
she  sat.  At  the  other  end,  back  in  a  lighted  al- 
cove, hung  a  big,  warm,  sympathetic  interior  by 
Lucien  Simon, —  a  group  of  Kitty's  friends  having 
tea  in  the  painter's  salon  in  Paris.  The  room  in 
the  picture  was  flooded  with  early  lamp-light,  and 
one  could  feel  the  grey,  chill  winter  twilight  in  the 
Paris  streets  outside.  There  stood  the  cavalier- 
like  old  composer,  who  had  done  much  for  Kitty, 
in  his  most  characteristic  attitude,  before  the 
hearth.  Mme.  Simon  sat  at  the  tea-table. 

B ,  the  historian,  and  H ,  the  philologist, 

stood  in  animated  discussion  behind  the  piano, 

while  Mme.  H was  tying  on  the  bonnet  of 

her  lovely  little  daughter.  Marcel  Durand,  the 
physicist,  sat  alone  in  a  corner,  his  startling  black- 
and-white  profile  lowered  broodingly,  his  cold 
hands  locked  over  his  sharp  knee.  A  genial,  red- 
bearded  sculptor  stood  over  him,  about  to  touch 
him  on  the  shoulder  and  waken  him  from  his 
dream. 

This  painting  made,  as  it  were,  another  room; 
so  that  Kitty's  study  on  Central  Park  West  seemed 
to  open  into  that  charming  French  interior,  into 


Scandal 


one  of  the  most  highly  harmonized  and  richly  as- 
sociated rooms  in  Paris.  There  her  friends  sat 
or  stood  about,  men  distinguished,  women  at  once 
plain  and  beautiful,  with  their  furs  and  bonnets, 
their  clothes  that  were  so  distinctly  not  smart  — 
all  held  together  by  the  warm  lamp-light,  by  an 
indescribable  atmosphere  of  graceful  and  gracious 
human  living. 

Pierce  Tevis,  after  he  had  entered  noiselessly 
and  greeted  Kitty,  stood  before  her  fire  and  looked 
over  her  shoulder  at  this  picture. 

"  It's  nice  that  you  have  them  there  together, 
now  that  they  are  scattered,  God  knows  where, 
fighting  to  preserve  just  that.  But  your  own 
room,  too,  is  charming,"  he  added  at  last,  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  canvas. 

Kitty  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Bah !  I  can  help  to  feed  the  lamp,  but  I  can't 
supply  the  dear  things  it  shines  upon." 

;t  Well,  tonight  it  shines  upon  you  and  me,  and 
we  aren't  so  bad."  Tevis  stepped  forward  and 
took  her  hand  affectionately.  "  You've  been  over 
a  rough  bit  of  road.  I'm  so  sorry.  It's  left  you 
looking  very  lovely,  though.  Has  it  been  very 
hard  to  get  on?  " 

She  brushed  his  hand  gratefully  against  her 
cheek  and  nodded. 

"  Awfully  dismal.  Everything  has  been  shut 
—  177  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

out  from  me  but  —  gossip.  That  always  gets  in. 
Often  I  don't  mind,  but  this  time  I  have.  People 
do  tell  such  lies  about  me." 

"  Of  course  we  do.  That's  part  of  our  fun,  one 
of  the  many  pleasures  you  give  us.  It  only  shows 
how  hard  up  we  are  for  interesting  public  person- 
ages; for  a  royal  family,  for  romantic  fiction,  if 
you  will.  But  I  never  hear  any  stories  that  wound 
me,  and  I'm  very  sensitive  about  you." 

"  I'm  gossiped  about  rather  more  than  the 
others,  am  I  not?  " 

"  I  believe !  Heaven  send  that  the  day  when 
you  are  not  gossiped  about  is  far  distant!  Do 
you  want  to  bite  off  your  nose  to  spite  your  pretty 
face?  You  are  the  sort  of  person  who  makes 
myths.  You  can't  turn  around  without  making 
one.  That's  your  singular  good  luck.  A  whole 
staff  of  publicity  men,  working  day  and  night, 
couldn't  do  for  you  what  you  do  for  yourself. 
There  is  an  affinity  between  you  and  the  popular 
imagination." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Kitty,  and  sighed.  "  All 
the  same,  I'm  getting  almost  as  tired  of  the  per- 
son I'm  supposed  to  be  as  of  the  person  I  really 
am.  I  wish  you  would  invent  a  new  Kitty  Ayr- 
shire for  me,  Pierce.  Can't  I  do  something  revo- 
lutionary? Marry,  for  instance?" 

Tevis  rose  in  alarm. 

"  Whatever  you  do,  don't  try  to  change  your 


Scandal 


legend.  You  have  now  the  one  that  gives  the 
greatest  satisfaction  to  the  greatest  number  of 
people.  Don't  disappoint  your  public.  The  pop- 
ular imagination,  to  which  you  make  such  a  direct 
appeal,  for  some  reason  wished  you  to  have  a 
son,  so  it  has  given  you  one.  I've  heard  a  dozen 
versions  of  the  story,  but  it  is  always  a  son,  never 
by  any  chance  a  daughter.  Your  public  gives  you 
what  is  best  for  you.  Let  well  enough  alone." 

Kitty  yawned  and  dropped  back  on  her  cush- 
ions. 

"  He  still  persists,  does  he,  in  spite  of  never 
being  visible?  " 

"  Oh,  but  he  has  been  seen  by  ever  so  many 
people.  Let  me  think  a  moment."  He  sank  into 
an  attitude  of  meditative  ease.  "  The  best  de- 
scription I  ever  had  of  him  was  from  a  friend  of 
my  mother,  an  elderly  woman,  thoroughly  truth- 
ful and  matter-of-fact.  She  has  seen  him  often. 
He  is  kept  in  Russia,  in  St.  Petersburg,  that  was. 
He  is  about  eight  years  old  and  of  marvellous 
beauty.  He  is  always  that  in  every  version.  My 
old  friend  has  seen  him  being  driven  in  his  sledge 
on  the  Nevskii  Prospekt  on  winter' afternoons; 
black  horses  with  silver  bells  and  a  giant  in  uni- 
form on  the  seat  beside  the  driver.  He  is  always 
attended  by  this  giant,  who  is  responsible  to  the 
Grand  Duke  Paul  for  the  boy.  This  lady  can 
produce  no  evidence  beyond  his  beauty  and  his 
—  179  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

splendid  furs  and  the  fact  that  all  the  Americans 
in  Petrograd  know  he  is  your  son." 

Kitty  laughed  mournfully. 

"  If  the  Grand  Duke  Paul  had  a  son,  any  old 
rag  of  a  son,  the  province  of  Moscow  couldn't  con- 
tain him!  He  may,  for  aught  I  know,  actually 
pretend  to  have  a  son.  It  would  be  very  like 
him."  She  looked  at  her  finger-tips  and  her  rings 
disapprovingly  for  a  moment.  "  Do  you  know, 
Fve  been  thinking  that  I  would  rather  like  to  lay 
hands  on  that  youngster.  I  believe  he'd  be  inter- 
esting. I'm  bored  with  the  world." 

Tevis  looked  up  and  said  quickly: 

"  Would  you  like  him,  really?  " 

"  Of  course  I  should,"  she  said  indignantly. 
"  But,  then,  I  like  other  things,  too;  and  one  has 
to  choose.  When  one  has  only  two  or  three  things 
to  choose  from,  life  is  hard;  when  one  has  many, 
it  is  harder  still.  No,  on  the  whole,  I  don't  mind 
that  story.  It's  rather  pretty,  except  for  the 
Grand  Duke.  But  not  all  of  them  are  pretty." 

'  Well,  none  of  them  are  very  ugly;  at  least  I 
never  heard  but  one  that  troubled  me,  and  that 
was  long  ago." 

She  looked  interested. 

"That  is  what  I  want  to  know;  how  do  the 
ugly  ones  get  started?  How  did  that  one  get 
going  and  what  was  it  about?  Is  it  too  dreadful 
to  repeat?" 

—  180— < 


Scandal 


"  No,  it's  not  especially  dreadful;  merely  rather 
shabby.  If  you  really  wish  to  know,  and  won't 
be  vexed,  I  can  tell  you  exactly  how  it  got  going, 
for  I  took  the  trouble  to  find  out.  But  it's  a  long 
story,  and  you  really  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  it." 

u  Then  who  did  have  to  do  with  it?  Tell  me; 
I  should  like  to  know  exactly  how  even  one  of  them 
originated." 

"  Will  you  be  comfortable  and  quiet  and  not 
get  into  a  rage,  and  let  me  look  at  you  as  much  as 
I  please?" 

Kitty  nodded,  and  Tevis  sat  watching  her  in- 
dolently while  he  debated  how  much  of  his  story 
he  ought  not  to  tell  her.  Kitty  liked  being  looked 
at  by  intelligent  persons.  She  knew  exactly  how 
good  looking  she  was;  and  she  knew,  too,  that, 
pretty  as  she  was,  some  of  those  rather  sallow 
women  in  the  Simon  painting  had  a  kind  of  beauty 
which  she  would  never  have.  This  knowledge, 
Tevis  was  thinking,  this  important  realization, 
contributed  more  to  her  loveliness  than  any  other 
thing  about  her;  more  than  her  smooth,  ivory  skin 
or  her  changing  grey  eyes,  the  delicate  forehead 
above  them,  or  even  the  dazzling  smile,  which  was 
gradually  becoming  too  bright  and  too  intentional, 
—  out  in  the  world,  at  least.  Here  by  her  own 
fire  she  still  had  for  her  friends  a  smile  less  electric 
than  the  one  she  flashed  from  stages.  She  could 
—  181  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

still  be,  in  short,  intime,  a  quality  which  few  artists 
keep,  which  few  ever  had. 

Kitty  broke  in  on  her  friend's  meditations. 
*  You  may  smoke.     I  had  rather  you  did.     I 
hate  to  deprive  people  of  things  they  like." 

"  No,  thanks.  May  I  have  those  chocolates  on 
the  tea-table?  They  are  quite  as  bad  for  me. 
May  you?  No,  I  suppose  not."  He  settled  him- 
self by  the  fire,  with  the  candy  beside  him,  and 
began  in  the  agreeable  voice  which  always  soothed 
his  listener. 

"  As  I  said,  it  was  a  long  while  ago,  when  you 
first  came  back  to  this  country  and  were  singing 
at  the  Manhattan.  I  dropped  in  at  the  Metro- 
politan one  evening  to  hear  something  new  they 
were  trying  out.  It  was  an  off  night,  no  pullers 
in  the  cast,  and  nobody  in  the  boxes  but  gover- 
nesses and  poor  relations.  At  the  end  of  the  first 
act  two  people  entered  one  of  the  boxes  in  the 
second  tier.  The  man  was  Siegmund  Stein,  the 
department-store  millionaire,  and  the  girl,  so  the 
men  about  me  in  the  omnibus  box  began  to  whis- 
per, was  Kitty  Ayrshire.  I  didn't  know  you  then, 
but  I  was  unwilling  to  believe  that  you  were  with 
Stein.  I  could  not  contradict  them  at  that  time, 
however,  for  the  resemblance,  if  it  was  merely  a 
resemblance,  was  absolute,  and  all  the  world  knew 
that  you  were  not  singing  at  the  Manhattan  that 
night.  The  girl's  hair  was  dressed  just  as  you 
—  182  — 


Scandal 


then  wore  yours.  Moreover,  her  head  was  small 
and  restless  like  yours,  and  she  had  your  colour- 
ing, your  eyes,  your  chin.  She  carried  herself 
with  the  critical  indifference  one  might  expect  in 
an  artist  who  had  come  for  a  look  at  a  new  pro- 
duction that  was  clearly  doomed  to  failure.  She 
applauded  lightly.  She  made  comments  to  Stein 
when  comments  were  natural  enough.  I  thought, 
as  I  studied  her  face  with  the  glass,  that  her  nose 
was  a  trifle  thinner  than  yours,  a  prettier  nose,  my 
dear  Kitty,  but  stupider  and  more  inflexible.  All 
the  same,  I  was  troubled  until  I  saw  her  laugh, — 
and  then  I  knew  she  was  a  counterfeit.  I  had 
never  seen  you  laugh,  but  I  knew  that  you  would 
not  laugh  like  that.  It  was  not  boisterous; 
indeed,  it  was  consciously  refined, —  mirthless, 
meaningless.  In  short,  it  was  not  the  laugh  of 
one  whom  our  friends  in  there  " —  pointing  to  the 
Simon  painting — "would  honour  with  their  af- 
fection and  admiration." 

Kitty  rose  on  her  elbow  and  burst  out  indig- 
nantly : 

44  So  you  would  really  have  been  hood-winked 
except  for  that !  You  may  be  sure  that  no  woman, 
no  intelligent  woman,  would  have  been.  Why  do 
we  ever  take  the  trouble  to  look  like  anything  for 
any  of  you?  I  could  count  on  my  four  fingers  " 
—  she  held  them  up  and  shook  them  at  him  — 
44  the  men  I've  known  who  had  the  least  perception 

—  183  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

of  what  any  woman  really  looked  like,  and  they 
were  all  dressmakers.  Even  painters  " —  glanc- 
ing back  in  the  direction  of  the  Simon  picture  — 
"  never  get  more  than  one  type  through  their  thick 
heads;  they  try  to  make  all  women  look  like  some 
wife  or  mistress.  You  are  all  the  same;  you 
never  see  our  real  faces.  What  you  do  see,  is 
some  cheap  conception  of  prettiness  you  got  from 
a  coloured  supplement  when  you  were  adolescents. 
It's  too  discouraging.  I'd  rather  take  vows  and 
veil  my  face  for  ever  from  such  abominable  eyes. 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  blind  any  petticoat  is  a 
queen."  Kitty  thumped  the  cushion  with  her 
elbow.  '  Well,  I  can't  do  anything  about  it.  Go 
on  with  your  story." 

"  Aren't  you  furious,  Kitty!  And  I  thought  I 
was  so  shrewd.  I've  quite  forgotten  where  I  was. 
Anyhow,  I  was  not  the  only  man  fooled.  After 
the  last  curtain  I  met  Villard,  the  press  man  of 
that  management,  in  the  lobby,  and  asked  him 
whether  Kitty  Ayrshire  was  in  the  house.  He 
said  he  thought  so.  Stein  had  telephoned  for  a 
box,  and  said  he  was  bringing  one  of  the  artists 
from  the  other  company.  Villard  had  been  too 
busy  about  the  new  production  to  go  to  the  box, 
but  he  was  quite  sure  the  woman  was  Ayrshire, 
whom  he  had  met  in  Paris. 

"  Not  long  after  that  I  met  Dan  Leland,  a  class- 
mate of  mine,  at  the  Harvard  Club.  He's  a 


Scandal 


journalist,  and  he  used  to  keep  such  eccentric  hours 
that  I  had  not  run  across  him  for  a  long  time. 
We  got  to  talking  about  modern  French  music, 
and  discovered  that  we  both  had  a  very  lively  in- 
terest in  Kitty  Ayrshire. 

"  *  Could  you  tell  me,'  Dan  asked  abruptly, 
*  why,  with  pretty  much  all  the  known  world  to 
choose  her  friends  from,  this  young  woman  should 
flit  about  with  Siegmund  Stein?  It  prejudices 
people  against  her.  He's  a  most  objectionable 
person.' 

4  Have  you/   I   asked,   '  seen  her  with  him, 
yourself?  ' 

"  Yes,  he  had  seen  her  driving  with  Stein,  and 
some  of  the  men  on  his  paper  had  seen  her  dining 
with  him  at  rather  queer  places  down  town.  Stein 
was  always  hanging  about  the  Manhattan  on 
nights  when  Kitty  sang.  I  told  Dan  that  I  sus- 
pected a  masquerade.  That  interested  him,  and 
he  said  he  thought  he  would  look  into  the  matter. 
In  short,  we  both  agreed  to  look  into  it.  Finally, 
we  got  the  story,  though  Dan  could  never  use  it, 
could  never  even  hint  at  it,  because  Stein  carries 
heavy  advertising  in  his  paper. 

"  To  make  you  see  the  point,  I  must  give  you  a 
little  history  of  Siegmund  Stein.  Any  one  who 
has  seen  him  never  forgets  him.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  hideous  men  in  New  York,  but  it's  not  at  all 
the  common  sort  of  ugliness  that  comes  from  over- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

eating  and  automobiles.  He  isn't  one  of  the  fat 
horrors.  He  has  one  of  those  rigid,  horselike 
faces  that  never  tell  anything;  a  long  nose,  flat- 
tened as  if  it  had  been  tied  down;  a  scornful  chin; 
long,  white  teeth;  flat  cheeks,  yellow  as  a  Mon- 
golian's; tiny,  black  eyes,  with  puffy  lids  and  no 
lashes ;  dingy,  dead-looking  hair  —  looks  as  if  it 
were  glued  on. 

"  Stein  came  here  a  beggar  from  somewhere 
in  Austria.  He  began  by  working  on  the  ma- 
chines in  old  Rosenthal's  garment  factory.  He 
became  a  speeder,  a  foreman,  a  salesman;  worked 
his  way  ahead  steadily  until  the  hour  when  he 
rented  an  old  dwelling-house  on  Seventh  Avenue 
and  began  to  make  misses'  and  juniors'  coats.  I 
believe  he  was  the  first  manufacturer  to  specialize 
in  those  particular  articles.  Dozens  of  garment 
manufacturers  have  come  along  the  same  road,  but 
Stein  is  like  none  of  the  rest  of  them.  He  is,  and 
always  was,  a  personality.  While  he  was  still  at 
the  machine,  a  hideous,  underfed  little  whipper- 
snapper,  he  was  already  a  youth  of  many-coloured 
ambitions,  deeply  concerned  about  his  dress,  his 
associates,  his  recreations.  He  haunted  the  old 
Astor  Library  and  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
learned  something  about  pictures  and  porcelains, 
took  singing  lessons,  though  he  had  a  voice  like  a 
crow's.  When  he  sat  down  to  his  baked  apple 
and  doughnut  in  a  basement  lunch-room,  he  would 
—  186  — 


Scandal 


prop  a  book  up  before  him  and  address  his  food 
with  as  much  leisure  and  ceremony  as  if  he  were 
dining  at  his  club.  He  held  himself  at  a  distance 
from  his  fellow-workmen  and  somehow  always 
managed  to  impress  them  with  his  superiority. 
He  had  inordinate  vanity,  and  there  are  many 
stories  about  his  foppishness.  After  his  first  pro- 
motion in  Rosenthal's  factory,  he  bought  a  new 
overcoat.  A  few  days  later,  one  of  the  men  at 
the  machines,  which  Stein  had  just  quitted,  ap- 
peared in  a  coat  exactly  like  it.  Stein  could  not 
discharge  him,  but  he  gave  his  own  coat  to  a  newly 
arrived  Russian  boy  and  got  another.  He  was 
already  magnificent. 

"  After  he  began  to  make  headway  with  misses' 
and  juniors'  cloaks,  he  became  a  collector  —  etch- 
ings, china,  old  musical  instruments.  He  had  a 
dancing  master,  and  engaged  a  beautiful  Brazilian 
widow  —  she  was  said  to  be  a  secret  agent  for 
some  South  American  republic  —  to  teach  him 
Spanish.  He  cultivated  the  society  of  the  un- 
known great;  poets,  actors,  musicians.  He  enter- 
tained them  sumptuously,  and  they  regarded  him 
as  a  deep,  mysterious  Jew  who  had  the  secret  of 
gold,  which  they  had  not.  His  business  associates 
thought  him  a  man  of  taste  and  culture,  a  patron 
of  the  arts,  a  credit  to  the  garment  trade. 

"  One  of  Stein's  many  ambitions  was  to  be 
thought  a  success  with  women.  He  got  consid- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

erable  notoriety  in  the  garment  world  by  his  at- 
tentions to  an  emotional  actress  who  is  now  quite 
forgotten,  but  who  had  her  little  hour  of  expecta- 
tion. Then  there  was  a  dancer;  then,  just  after 
Gorky's  visit  here,  a  Russian  anarchist  woman. 
After  that  the  coat-makers  and  shirtwaist-makers 
began  to  whisper  that  Stein's  great  success  was 
with  Kitty  Ayrshire. 

14  It  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  disprove 
such  a  story,  as  Dan  Leland  and  I  discovered. 
We  managed  to  worry  down  the  girl's  address 
through  a  taxi-cab  driver  who  got  next  to  Stein's 
chauffeur.  She  had  an  apartment  in  a  decent- 
enough  house  on  Waverly  Place.  Nobody  ever 
came  to  see  her  but  Stein,  her  sisters,  and  a  little 
Italian  girl  from  whom  we  got  the  story. 

'  The  counterfeit's  name  was  Ruby  Mohr. 
She  worked  in  a  shirtwaist  factory,  and  this  Italian 
girl,  Margarita,  was  her  chum.  Stein  came  to  the 
factory  when  he  was  hunting  for  living  models  for 
his  new  department  store.  He  looked  the  girls 
over,  and  picked  Ruby  out  from  several  hundred. 
He  had  her  call  at  his  office  after  business  hours, 
tried  her  out  in  cloaks  and  evening  gowns,  and  of- 
fered her  a  position.  She  never,  however,  ap- 
peared as  a  model  in  the  Sixth  Avenue  store.  Her 
likeness  to  the  newly  arrived  prima  donna  sug- 
gested to  Stein  another  act  in  the  play  he  was 
always  putting  on.  He  gave  two  of  her  sisters 
—  188  — 


Scandal 


positions  as  saleswomen,  but  Ruby  he  established 
in  an  apartment  on  Waverly  Place. 

"  To  the  outside  world  Stein  became  more  mys- 
terious in  his  behaviour  than  ever.  He  dropped 
his  Bohemian  friends.  No  more  suppers  and 
theatre-parties.  Whenever  Kitty  sang,  he  was 
in  his  box  at  the  Manhattan,  usually  alone,  but 
not  always.  Sometimes  he  took  two  or  three 
good  customers,  large  buyers  from  St.  Louis  or 
Kansas  City.  His  coat  factory  is  still  the  biggest 
earner  of  his  properties.  I've  seen  him  there  with 
these  buyers,  and  they  carried  themselves  as  if 
they  were  being  let  in  on  something;  took  posses- 
sion of  the  box  with  a  proprietory  air,  smiled  and 
applauded  and  looked  wise  as  if  each  and  every 
one  of  them  were  friends  of  Kitty  Ayrshire. 
While  they  buzzed  and  trained  their  field-glasses 
on  the  prima  donna,  Stein  was  impassive  and  si- 
lent. I  don't  imagine  he  even  told  many  lies. 
He  is  the  most  insinuating  cuss,  anyhow.  He 
probably  dropped  his  voice  or  lifted  his  eyebrows 
when  he  invited  them,  and  let  their  own  eager 
imaginations  do  the  rest.  But  what  tales  they 
took  back  to  their  provincial  capitals ! 

"  Sometimes,  before  they  left  New  York,  they 
were  lucky  enough  to  see  Kitty  dining  with  their 
clever  garment  man  at  some  restaurant,  her  back 
to  the  curious  crowd,  her  face  half  concealed  by  a 
veil  or  a  fur  collar.  Those  people  are  like  chil- 
—  189  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

dren;  nothing  that  is  true  or  probable  interests 
them.  They  want  the  old,  gaudy  lies,  told  always 
in  the  same  way.  Siegmund  Stein  and  Kitty  Ayr- 
shire —  a  story  like  that,  once  launched,  is  re- 
peated unchallenged  for  years  among  New  York 
factory  sports.  In  St.  Paul,  St.  Jo,  Sioux  City, 
Council  Bluffs,  there  used  to  be  clothing  stores 
where  a  photograph  of  Kitty  Ayrshire  hung  in  the 
fitting-room  or  over  the  proprietor's  desk. 

"  This  girl  impersonated  you  successfully  to  the 
lower  manufacturing  world  of  New  York  for  two 
seasons.  I  doubt  if  it  could  have  been  put  across 
anywhere  else  in  the  world  except  in  this  city, 
which  pays  you  so  magnificently  and  believes  of 
you  what  it  likes.  Then  you  went  over  to  the 
Metropolitan,  stopped  living  in  hotels,  took  this 
apartment,  and  began  to  know  people.  Stein  dis- 
continued his  pantomime  at  the  right  moment, 
withdrew  his  patronage.  Ruby,  of  course,  did  not 
go  back  to  shirtwaists.  A  business  friend  of 
Stein's  took  her  over,  and  she  dropped  out  of 
sight.  Last  winter,  one  cold,  snowy  night,  I  saw 
her  once  again.  She  was  going  into  a  saloon  hotel 
with  a  tough-looking  young  fellow.  She  had  been 
drinking,  she  was  shabby,  and  her  blue  shoes  left 
stains  in  the  slush.  But  she  still  looked  amaz- 
ingly, convincingly  like  a  battered,  hardened  Kitty 
Ayrshire.  As  I  saw  her  going  up  the  brass-edged 
stairs,  I  said  to  myself — " 

—  190  — 


Scandal 


"  Never  mind  that."  Kitty  rose  quickly,  took 
an  impatient  step  to  the  hearth,  and  thrust  one 
shining  porcelain  slipper  out  to  the  fire.  "  The 
girl  doesn't  interest  me.  There  is  nothing  I  can 
do  about  her,  and  of  course  she  never  looked  like 
me  at  all.  But  what  did  Stein  do  without  me?  " 

"  Stein?  Oh,  he  chose  a  new  role.  He  mar- 
ried with  great  magnificence  —  married  a  Miss 
Mandelbaum,  a  California  heiress.  Her  people 
have  a  line  of  department  stores  along  the  Pacific 
Coast.  The  Steins  now  inhabit  a  great  house  on 
Fifth  Avenue  that  used  to  belong  to  people  of  a 
very  different  sort.  To  old  New-Yorkers,  it's  an 
historic  house." 

Kitty  laughed,  and  sat  down  on  the  end  of  her 
couch  nearest  her  guest;  sat  upright,  without  cush- 
ions. 

"  I  imagine  I  know  more  about  that  house  than 
you  do.  Let  me  tell  you  how  I  made  the  sequel 
to  your  story. 

"  It  has  to  do  with  Peppo  Amoretti.  You  may 
remember  that  I  brought  Peppo  to  this  country, 
and  brought  him  in,  too,  the  year  the  war  broke 
out,  when  it  wasn't  easy  to  get  boys  who  hadn't 
done  military  service  out  of  Italy.  I  had  taken 
him  to  Munich  to  have  some  singing  lessons. 
After  the  war  came  on  we  had  to  get  from  Munich 
to  Naples  in  order  to  sail  at  all.  We  were  told 
that  we  could  take  only  hand  luggage  on  the  rail- 
—  191  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ways,  but  I  took  nine  trunks  and  Peppo.  I 
dressed  Peppo  in  knickerbockers,  made  him  brush 
his  curls  down  over  his  ears  like  doughnuts,  and 
carry  a  little  violin-case.  It  took  us  eleven  days 
to  reach  Naples.  I  got  my  trunks  through  purely 
by  personal  persuasion.  Once  at  Naples,  I  had  a 
frightful  time  getting  Peppo  on  the  boat.  I  de- 
clared him  as  hand-luggage ;  he  was  so  travel-worn 
and  so  crushed  by  his  absurd  appearance  that  he 
did  not  look  like  much  else.  One  inspector  had 
a  sense  of  humour,  and  passed  him  at  that,  but  the 
other  was  inflexible.  I  had  to  be  very  dramatic. 
Peppo  was  frightened,  and  there  is  no  fight  in  him, 
anyhow. 

"  '  Per  me  tut  to  e  indiferente,  Stgnorina,'  he 
kept  whimpering.  '  Why  should  I  go  without  it? 
I  have  lost  it/ 

"'  Which?'  I  screamed.  'Not  the  hat- 
trunk?' 

"  '  No,  no;  mla  voce.  It  is  gone  since  Rav- 
enna.' 

"  He  thought  he  had  lost  his  voice  somewhere 
along  the  way.  At  last  I  told  the  inspector  that 
I  couldn't  live  without  Peppo,  and  that  I  would 
throw  myself  into  the  bay.  I  took  him  into  my 
confidence.  Of  course,  when  I  found  I  had  to 
play  on  that  string,  I  wished  I  hadn't  made  the 
boy  such  a  spectacle.  But  ridiculous  as  he  was, 
I  managed  to  make  the  inspector  believe  that  I 
—  192  — 


Scandal 


had  kidnapped  him,  and  that  he  was  indispensable 
to  my  happiness.  I  found  that  incorruptible  offi- 
cial, like  most  people,  willing  to  aid  one  so  utterly 
depraved.  I  could  never  have  got  that  boy  out 
for  any  proper,  reasonable  purpose,  such  as  giving 
him  a  job  or  sending  him  to  school.  Well,  it's  a 
queer  world !  But  I  must  cut  all  that  and  get  to 
the  Steins. 

*  That  first  winter  Peppo  had  no  chance  at  the 
Opera.  There  was  an  iron  ring  about  him,  and 
my  interest  in  him  only  made  it  all  the  more  dif- 
ficult. We've  become  a  nest  of  intrigues  down 
there;  worse  than  the  Scala.  Peppo  had  to 
scratch  along  just  any  way.  One  evening  he  came 
to  me  and  said  he  could  get  an  engagement  to  sing 
for  the  grand  rich  Steins,  but  the  condition  was 
that  I  should  sing  with  him.  They  would  pay,  oh, 
anything !  And  the  fact  that  I  had  sung  a  private 
engagement  with  him  would  give  him  other  en- 
gagements of  the  same  sort.  As  you  know,  I 
never  sing  private  engagements;  but  to  help  the 
boy  along,  I  consented. 

"  On  the  night  of  the  party,  Peppo  and  I  went 
to  the  house  together  in  a  taxi.  My  car  was  ail- 
ing. At  the  hour  when  the  music  was  about  to 
begin,  the  host  and  hostess  appeared  at  my  dres- 
sing-room, up-stairs.  Isn't  he  wonderful?  Your 
description  was  most  inadequate.  I  never  en- 
countered such  restrained,  frozen,  sculptured  van- 
—  193  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

ity.  My  hostess  struck  me  as  extremely  good 
natured  and  jolly,  though  somewhat  intimate  in 
her  manner.  Her  reassuring  pats  and  smiles  puz- 
zled me  at  the  time,  I  remember,  when  I  didn't 
know  that  she  had  anything  in  particular  to  be 
large-minded  and  charitable  about.  Her  husband 
made  known  his  willingness  to  conduct  me  to  the 
music-room,  and  we  ceremoniously  descended  a 
staircase  blooming  like  the  hanging-gardens  of 
Babylon.  From  there  I  had  my  first  glimpse  of 
the  company.  They  were  strange  people.  The 
women  glittered  like  Christmas-trees.  When  we 
were  half-way  down  the  stairs,  the  buzz  of  con- 
versation stopped  so  suddenly  that  some  foolish 
remark  I  happened  to  be  making  rang  out  like 
oratory.  Every  face  was  lifted  toward  us.  My 
host  and  I  completed  our  descent  and  went  the 
length  of  the  drawing-room  through  a  silence 
which  somewhat  awed  me.  I  couldn't  help  wish- 
ing that  one  could  ever  get  that  kind  of  attention 
in  a  concert-hall.  In  the  music-room  Stein  insisted 
upon  arranging  things  for  me.  I  must  say  that 
he  was  neither  awkward  nor  stupid,  not  so 
wooden  as  most  rich  men  who  rent  singers.  I 
was  properly  affable.  One  has,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, to  be  either  gracious  or  pouty. 
Either  you  have  to  stand  and  sulk,  like  an  old- 
fashioned  German  singer  who  wants  the  piano 
moved  about  for  her  like  a  tea-wagon,  and  the 
—  194  — 


Scandal 


lights  turned  up  and  the  lights  turned  down, —  or 
you  have  to  be  a  trifle  forced,  like  a  debutante 
trying  to  make  good.  The  fixed  attention  of  my 
audience  affected  me.  I  was  aware  of  unusual  in- 
terest, of  a  thoroughly  enlisted  public.  When, 
however,  my  host  at  last  left  me,  I  felt  the  tension 
relax  to  such  an  extent  that  I  wondered  whether 
by  any  chance  he,  and  not  I,  was  the  object  of  so 
much  curiosity.  But,  at  any  rate,  their  cordiality 
pleased  me  so  well  that  after  Peppo  and  I  had 
finished  our  numbers  I  sang  an  encore  or  two,  and 
I  stayed  through  Peppo's  performance  because  I 
felt  that  they  liked  to  look  at  me. 

"  I  had  asked  not  to  be  presented  to  people,  but 
Mrs.  Stein,  of  course,  brought  up  a  few  friends. 
The  throng  began  closing  in  upon  me,  glowing 
faces  bore  down  from  every  direction,  and  I  re- 
alized that,  among  people  of  such  unscrupulous 
cordiality,  I  must  look  out  for  myself.  I  ran 
through  the  drawing-room  and  fled  up  the  stair- 
way, which  was  thronged  with  Old  Testament 
characters.  As  I  passed  them,  they  all  looked 
at  me  with  delighted,  cherishing  eyes,  as  if  I  had 
at  last  come  back  to  my  native  hamlet.  At  the  top 
of  the  stairway  a  young  man,  who  looked  like  a 
camel  with  its  hair  parted  on  the  side,  stopped  me, 
seized  my  hands  and  said  he  must  present  himself, 
as  he  was  such  an  old  friend  of  Siegmund's  bach- 
elor days.  I  said,  *  Yes,  how  interesting!  '  The, 
—  195  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

atmosphere  was  somehow  so  thick  and  personal 
that  I  felt  uncomfortable. 

"  When  I  reached  my  dressing-room  Mrs.  Stein 
followed  me  to  say  that  I  would,  of  course,  come 
down  to  supper,  as  a  special  table  had  been  pre- 
pared for  me.  I  replied  that  it  was  not  my  cus- 
tom. 

"  '  But  here  it  is  different.  With  us  you  must 
feel  perfect  freedom.  Siegmund  will  never  for- 
give me  if  you  do  not  stay.  After  supper  our  car 
will  take  you  home.'  She  was  overpowering. 
She  had  the  manner  of  an  intimate  and  indulgent 
friend  of  long  standing.  She  seemed  to  have 
come  to  make  me  a  visit.  I  could  only  get  rid  of 
her  by  telling  her  that  I  must  see  Peppo  at  once, 
if  she  would  be  good  enough  to  send  him  to  me. 
She  did  not  come  back,  and  I  began  to  fear  that 
I  would  actually  be  dragged  down  to  supper.  It 
was  as  if  I  had  been  kidnapped.  I  felt  like  Gul- 
liver among  the  giants.  These  people  were  all 
too  —  well,  too  much  what  they  were.  No  chill 
of  manner  could  hold  them  off.  I  was  defence- 
less. I  must  get  away.  I  ran  to  the  top  of  the 
staircase  and  looked  down.  There  was  that  fool 
Peppo,  beleaguered  by  a  bevy  of  fair  women. 
They  were  simply  looting  him,  and  he  was  grin- 
ning like  an  idiot.  I  gathered  up  my  train,  ran 
down,  and  made  a  dash  at  him,  yanked  him  out  of 
that  circle  of  rich  contours,  and  dragged  him  by 
—  196  — 


Scandal 


a  limp  cuff  up  the  stairs  after  me.  I  told  him  that 
I  must  escape  from  that  house  at  once.  If  he 
could  get  to  the  telephone,  well  and  good;  but  if 
he  couldn't  get  past  so  many  deep-breathing  ladies, 
then  he  must  break  out  of  the  front  door  and  hunt 
me  a  cab  on  foot.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  about  to  be 
immured  within  a  harem. 

"  He  had  scarcely  dashed  off  when  the  host 
called  my  name  several  times  outside  the  door. 
Then  he  knocked  and  walked  in,  uninvited.  I  told 
him  that  I  would  be  inflexible  about  supper.  He 
must  make  my  excuses  to  his  charming  friends; 
any  pretext  he  chose.  He  did  not  insist.  He 
took  up  his  stand  by  the  fireplace  and  began  to 
talk;  said  rather  intelligent  things.  I  did  not 
drive  him  out;  it  was  his  own  house,  and  he  made 
himself  agreeable.  After  a  time  a  deputation  of 
his  friends  came  down  the  hall,  somewhat  boister- 
ously, to  say  that  supper  could  not  be  served  until 
we  came  down.  Stein  was  still  standing  by  the 
mantel,  I  remember.  He  scattered  them,  with- 
out moving  or  speaking  to  them,  by  a  portentous 
look.  There  is  something  hideously  forceful 
about  him.  He  took  a  very  profound  leave  of 
me,  and  said  he  would  order  his  car  at  once.  In 
a  moment  Peppo  arrived,  splashed  to  the  ankles, 
and  we  made  our  escape  together. 

"  A  week  later  Peppo  came  to  me  in  a  rage, 
with  a  paper  called  The  American  Gentleman, 
—  197  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

and  showed  me  a  page  devoted  to  three  photo- 
graphs: Mr.  and  Mrs.  Siegmund  Stein,  lately 
married  in  New  York  City,  and  Kitty  Ayrshire, 
operatic  soprano,  who  sang  at  their  house-warm- 
ing. Mrs.  Stein  and  I  were  grinning  our  best, 
looked  frantic  with  delight,  and  Siegmund 
frowned  inscrutably  between  us.  Poor  Peppo 
wasn't  mentioned.  Stein  has  a  publicity  sense." 

Tevis  rose. 

"  And  you  have  enormous  publicity  value  and 
no  discretion.  It  was  just  like  you  to  fall  for 
such  a  plot,  Kitty.  You'd  be  sure  to." 

"What's  the  use  of  discretion?"  She  mur- 
mured behind  her  hand.  "  If  the  Steins  want  to 
adopt  you  into  their  family  circle,  they'll  get  you 
in  the  end.  That's  why  I  don't  feel  compassionate 
about  your  Ruby.  She  and  I  are  in  the  same  boat. 
We  are  both  the  victims  of  circumstance,  and  in 
New  York  so  many  of  the  circumstances  arc 
Steins." 


—  198  — 


Paul's  Case 

IT  was  Paul's  afternoon  to  appear  before  the 
faculty  of  the  Pittsburgh  High  School  to  ac- 
count for  his  various  misdemeanours.  He 
had  been  suspended  a  week  ago,  and  his  father 
had  called  at  the  Principal's  office  and  confessed 
his  perplexity  about  his  son.  Paul  entered  the 
faculty  room  suave  and  smiling.  His  clothes 
were  a  trifle  out-grown,  and  the  tan  velvet  on  the 
collar  of  his  open  overcoat  was  frayed  and  worn; 
but  for  all  that  there  was  something  of  the  dandy 
about  him,  and  he  wore  an  opal  pin  in  his  neatly 
knotted  black  four-in-hand,  and  a  red  carnation  in 
his  button-hole.  This  latter  adornment  the 
faculty  somehow  felt  was  not  properly  significant 
of  the  contrite  spirit  befitting  a  boy  under  the  ban 
of  suspension. 

Paul  was  tall  for  his  age  and  very  thin,  with 
high,  cramped  shoulders  and  a  narrow  chest. 
His  eyes  were  remarkable  for  a  certain  hysterical 
brilliancy,  and  he  continually  used  them  in  a  con- 
scious, theatrical  sort  of  way,  peculiarly  offen- 
sive in  a  boy.  The  pupils  were  abnormally  large, 
as  though  he  were  addicted  to  belladonna,  but 
—  199  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

there  was  a  glassy  glitter  about  them  which  that 
drug  does  not  produce. 

When  questioned  by  the  Principal  as  to  why 
he  was  there,  Paul  stated,  politely  enough,  that 
he  wanted  to  come  back  to  school.  This  was  a  lie, 
but  Paul  was  quite  accustomed  to  lying;  found 
it,  indeed,  indispensable  for  overcoming  friction. 
His  teachers  were  asked  to  state  their  respective 
charges  against  him,  which  they  did  with  such  a 
rancour  and  aggrievedness  as  evinced  that  this 
was  not  a  usual  case.  Disorder  and  impertinence 
were  among  the  offences  named,  yet  each  of  his 
instructors  felt  that  it  was  scarcely  possible  to 
put  into  words  the  real  cause  of  the  trouble, 
which  lay  in  a  sort  of  hysterically  defiant  manner 
of  the  boy's;  in  the  contempt  which  they  all  knew 
he  felt  for  them,  and  which  he  seemingly  made 
not  the  least  effort  to  conceal.  Once,  when  he 
had  been  making  a  synopsis  of  a  paragraph  at  the 
blackboard,  his  English  teacher  had  stepped  to 
his  side  and  attempted  to  guide  his  hand.  Paul 
had  started  back  with  a  shudder  and  thrust  his 
hands  violently  behind  him.  The  astonished 
woman  could  scarcely  have  been  more  hurt  and 
embarrassed  had  he  struck  at  her.  The  insult 
was  so  involuntary  and  definitely  personal  as  to 
be  unforgettable.  In  one  way  and  another,  he 
had  made  all  his  teachers,  men  and  women  alike, 
conscious  of  the  same  feeling  of  physical  aver- 
—  200  — 


Paul's  Case 


sion.  In  one  class  he  habitually  sat  with  his  hand 
shading  Ms  eyes;  in  another  he  always  looked 
out  of  the  window  during  the  recitation;  in  an- 
other he  made  a  running  commentary  on  the  lec- 
ture, with  humorous  intent. 

His  teachers  felt  this  afternoon  that  his  whole 
attitude  was  symbolized  by  his  shrug  and  his 
flippantly  red  carnation  flower,  and  they  fell  upon 
him  without  mercy,  his  English  teacher  leading 
the  pack.  He  stood  through  it  smiling,  his  pale 
lips  parted  over  his  white  teeth.  (His  lips  were 
continually  twitching,  and  he  had  a  habit  of  rais- 
ing his  eyebrows  that  was  contemptuous  and  ir- 
ritating to  the  last  degree.)  Older  boys  than 
Paul  had  broken  down  and  shed  tears  under  that 
ordeal,  but  his  set  smile  did  not  once  desert  him, 
and  his  only  sign  of  discomfort  was  the  nervous 
trembling  of  the  fingers  that  toyed  with  the  but- 
tons of  his  overcoat,  and  an  occasional  jerking  of 
the  other  hand  which  held  his  hat.  Paul  was  al- 
ways smiling,  always  glancing  about  him,  seeming 
to  feel  that  people  might  be  watching  him  and  try- 
ing to  detect  something.  This  conscious  expres- 
sion, since  it  was  as  far  as  possible  from  boyish 
mirthfulness,  was  usually  attributed  to  insolence 
or  "  smartness." 

As  the  inquisition  proceeded,  one  of  his  in- 
structors repeated  an  impertinent  remark  of  the 
boy's,  and  the  Principal  asked  him  whether  he 
—  201  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

thought  that  a  courteous  speech  to  make  to  a 
woman.  Paul  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly  and 
his  eyebrows  twitched. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  replied.  "  I  didn't  mean  to 
be  polite  or  impolite,  either.  I  guess  it's  a  sort  of 
way  I  have,  of  saying  things  regardless." 

The  Principal  asked  him  whether  he  didn't 
think  that  a  way  it  would  be  well  to  get  rid  of. 
Paul  grinned  and  said  he  guessed  so.  When  he 
was  told  that  he  could  go,  he  bowed  gracefully 
and  went  out.  His  bow  was  like  a  repetition  of 
the  scandalous  red  carnation. 

His  teachers  were  in  despair,  and  his  drawing 
master  voiced  the  feeling  of  them  all  when  he  de- 
clared there  was  something  about  the  boy  which 
none  of  them  understood.  He  added:  "  I  don't 
really  believe  that  smile  of  his  comes  altogether 
from  insolence;  there's  something  sort  of  haunted 
about  it.  The  boy  is  not  strong,  for  one  thing. 
There  is  something  wrong  about  the  fellow." 

The  drawing  master  had  come  to  realize  that, 
in  looking  at  Paul,  one  saw  only  his  white  teeth 
and  the  forced  animation  of  his  eyes.  One  warm 
afternoon  the  boy  had  gone  to  sleep  at  his  draw- 
ing-board, and  his  master  had  noted  with  amaze- 
ment what  a  white,  blue-veined  face  it  was; 
drawn  and  wrinkled  like  an  old  man's  about  the 
eyes,  the  lips  twitching  even  in  his  sleep. 

His  teachers  left  the  building  dissatisfied  and 
—  202  — 


Paul's  Case 


unhappy;  humiliated  to  have  felt  so  vindictive 
toward  a  mere  boy,  to  have  uttered  this  feeling 
in  cutting  terms,  and  to  have  set  each  other  on, 
as  it  were,  in  the  grewsome  game  of  intemperate 
reproach.  One  of  them  remembered  having  seen 
a  miserable  street  cat  set  at  bay  by  a  ring  of  tor- 
mentors. 

As  for  Paul,  he  ran  down  the  hill  whistling  the 
Soldiers'  Chorus  from  Faust,  looking  wildly  be- 
hind him  now  and  then  to  see  whether  some  of 
his  teachers  were  not  there  to  witness  his  light- 
heartedness.  As  it  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon 
and  Paul  was  on  duty  that  evening  as  usher  at 
Carnegie  Hall,  he  decided  that  he  would  not  go 
home  to  supper. 

When  he  reached  the  concert  hall  the  doors 
were  not  yet  open.  It  was  chilly  outside,  and  he 
decided  to  go  up  into  the  picture  gallery —  always 
deserted  at  this  hour  — -  where  there  were  some  of 
Raffelli's  gay  studies  of  Paris  streets  and  an  airy 
blue  Venetian  scene  or  two  that  always  exhilarated 
him.  He  was  delighted  to  find  no  one  in  the 
gallery  but  the  old  guard,  who  sat  in  the  corner, 
a  newspaper  on  his  knee,  a  black  patch  over  one 
eye  and  the  other  closed.  Paul  possessed  himself 
of  the  place  and  walked  confidently  up  and  down, 
whistling  under  his  breath.  After  a  while  he  sat 
down  before  a  blue  Rico  and  lost  himself.  When 
he  bethought  him  to  look  at  his  watch,  it  was  after 
—  203  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

seven  o'clock,  and  he  rose  with  a  start  and  ran 
downstairs,  making  a  face  at  Augustus  Caesar, 
peering  out  from  the  cast-room,  and  an  evil  ges- 
ture at  the  Venus  of  Milo  as  he  passed  her  on 
the  stairway. 

When  Paul  reached  the  ushers'  dressing-room 
half-a-dozen  boys  were  there  already,  and  he  be- 
gan excitedly  to  tumble  into  his  uniform.  It  was 
one  of  the  few  that  at  all  approached  fitting,  and 
Paul  thought  it  very  becoming  —  though  he  knew 
the  tight,  straight  coat  accentuated  his  narrow 
chest,  about  which  he  was  exceedingly  sensitive. 
He  was  always  excited  while  he  dressed,  twanging 
all  over  to  the  tuning  of  the  strings  and  the  pre- 
liminary flourishes  of  the  horns  in  the  music- 
room;  but  tonight  he  seemed  quite  beside  himself, 
and  he  teased  and  plagued  the  boys  until,  telling 
him  that  he  was  crazy,  they  put  him  down  on  the 
floor  and  sat  on  him. 

Somewhat  calmed  by  his  suppression,  Paul 
dashed  out  to  the  front  of  the  house  to  seat  the 
early  comers.  He  was  a  model  usher.  Gracious 
and  smiling  he  ran  up  and  down  the  aisles.  Noth- 
ing was  too  much  trouble  for  him;  he  carried 
messages  and  brought  programs  as  though 
it  were  his  greatest  pleasure  in  life,  and  all  the 
people  in  his  section  thought  him  a  charming 
boy,  feeling  that  he  remembered  and  admired 
them.  As  the  house  filled,  he  grew  more  and  more 
—  204  — 


Paul's  Case 


vivacious  and  animated,  and  the  colour  came  to 
his  cheeks  and  lips.  It  was  very  much  as  though 
this  were  a  great  reception  and  Paul  were  the 
host.  Just  as  the  musicians  came  out  to  take 
their  places,  his  English  teacher  arrived  with 
checks  for  the  seats  which  a  prominent  manu- 
facturer had  taken  for  the  season.  She  betrayed 
some  embarrassment  when  she  handed  Paul  the 
tickets,  and  a  hauteur  which  subsequently  made 
her  feel  very  foolish.  Paul  was  startled  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  had  the  feeling  of  wanting  to  put  her 
out;  what  business  had  she  here  among  all  these 
fine  people  and  gay  colours  ?  He  looked  her  over 
and  decided  that  she  was  not  appropriately 
dressed  and  must  be  a  fool  to  sit  downstairs  in 
such  togs.  The  tickets  had  probably  been  sent 
her  out  of  kindness,  he  reflected,  as  he  put  down 
a  seat  for  her,  and  she  had  about  as  much  right 
to  sit  there  as  he  had. 

When  the  symphony  began  Paul  sank  into  one 
of  the  rear  seats  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  and 
lost  himself  as  he  had  done  before  the  Rico.  It 
was  not  that  symphonies,  as  such,  meant  any- 
thing in  particular  to  Paul,  but  the  first  sigh  of  the 
instruments  seemed  to  free  some  hilarious  spirit 
within  him;  something  that  struggled  there  like 
the  Genius  in  the  bottle  found  by  the  Arab  fish- 
erman. He  felt  a  sudden  zest  of  life;  the  lights 
danced  before  his  eyes  and  the  concert  hall  blazed 
—  205  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

into  unimaginable  splendour.  When  the  soprano 
soloist  came  on,  Paul  forgot  even  the  nastiness 
of  his  teacher's  being  there,  and  gave  himself  up 
to  the  peculiar  intoxication  such  personages  al- 
ways had  for  him.  The  soloist  chanced  to  be  a 
German  woman,  by  no  means  in  her  first  youth, 
and  the  mother  of  many  children;  but  she  wore  a 
satin  gown  and  a  tiara,  and  she  had  that  inde- 
finable air  of  achievement,  that  world-shine  upon 
her,  which  always  blinded  Paul  to  any  possible 
defects. 

After  a  concert  was  over,  Paul  was  often  ir- 
ritable and  wretched  until  he  got  to  sleep, —  and 
tonight  he  was  even  more  than  usually  restless. 
He  had  the  feeling  of  not  being  able  to  let  down; 
of  its  being  impossible  to  give  up  this  delicious 
excitement  which  was  the  only  thing  that  could 
be  called  living  at  all.  During  the  last  number  he 
withdrew  and,  after  hastily  changing  his  clothes 
in  the  dressing-room,  slipped  out  to  the  side  door 
where  the  singer's  carriage  stood.  Here  he  be- 
gan pacing  rapidly  up  and  down  the  walk,  wait- 
ing to  see  her  come  out. 

Over  yonder  the  Schenley,  in  its  vacant  stretch, 
loomed  big  and  square  through  the  fine  rain,  the 
windows  of  its  twelve  stories  glowing  like  those 
of  a  lighted  card-board  house  under  a  Christmas 
tree.  All  the  actors  and  singers  of  any  impor- 
tance stayed  there  when  they  were  in  the  city, 
—  206  — 


Paul's  Case 


and  a  number  of  the  big  manufacturers  of  the 
place  lived  there  in  the  winter.  Paul  had  often 
hung  about  the  hotel,  watching  the  people  go  in 
and  out,  longing  to  enter  and  leave  school-masters 
and  dull  care  behind  him  for  ever. 

At  last  the  singer  came  out,  accompanied  by 
the  conductor,  who  helped  her  into  her  carriage 
and  closed  the  door  with  a  cordial  auf  wiedersehen, 
—  which  set  Paul  to  wondering  whether  she  were 
not  an  old  sweetheart  of  his.  Paul  followed  the 
carriage  over  to  the  hotel,  walking  so  rapidly  as 
not  to  be  far  from  the  entrance  when  the  singer 
alighted  and  disappeared  behind  the  swinging 
glass  doors  which  were  opened  by  a  negro  in  a  tall 
hat  and  a  long  coat.  In  the  moment  that  the  door 
was  ajar,  it  seemed  to  Paul  that  he,  too,  entered. 
He  seemed  to  feel  himself  go  after  her  up  the 
steps,  into  the  warm,  lighted  building,  into  an 
exotic,  a  tropical  world  of  shiny,  glistening  sur- 
faces and  basking  ease.  He  reflected  upon  the 
mysterious  dishes  that  were  brought  into  the 
dining-room,  the  green  bottles  in  buckets  of  ice, 
as  he  had  seen  them  in  the  supper  party  pictures 
of  the  Sunday  supplement.  A  quick  gust  of  wind 
brought  the  rain  down  with  sudden  vehemence, 
and  Paul  was  startled  to  find  that  he  was  still 
outside  in  the  slush  of  the  gravel  driveway;  that 
his  boots  were  letting  in  the  water  and  his  scanty 
overcoat  was  clinging  wet  about  him;  that  the 
—  207  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

lights  in  front  of  the  concert  hall  were  out,  and 
that  the  rain  was  driving  in  sheets  between  him 
and  the  orange  glow  of  the  windows  above  him. 
There  it  was,  what  he  wanted  —  tangibly  before 
him,  like  the  fairy  world  of  a  Christmas  panto- 
mime; as  the  rain  beat  in  his  face,  Paul  wondered 
whether  he  were  destined  always  to  shiver  in  the 
black  night  outside,  looking  up  at  it. 

He  turned  and  walked  reluctantly  toward  the 
car  tracks.  The  end  had  to  come  sometime;  his 
father  in  his  night-clothes  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
explanations  that  did  not  explain,  hastily  im- 
provised fictions  that  were  forever  tripping  him 
up,  his  upstairs  room  and  its  horrible  yellow  wall- 
paper, the  creaking  bureau  with  the  greasy  plush 
collar-box,  and  over  his  painted  wooden  bed  the 
pictures  of  George  Washington  and  John  Calvin, 
and  the  framed  motto,  "  Feed  my  Lambs,"  which 
had  been  worked  in  red  worsted  by  his  mother, 
whom  Paul  could  not  remember. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Paul  alighted  from  the 
Negley  Avenue  car  and  went  slowly  down  one  of 
the  side  streets  off  the  main  thoroughfare.  It 
was  a  highly  respectable  street,  where  all  the 
houses  were  exactly  alike,  and  where  business  men 
of  moderate  means  begot  and  reared  large  fam- 
ilies of  children,  all  of  whom  went  to  Sabbath- 
school  and  learned  the  shorter  catechism,  and  were 
interested  in  arithmetic;  all  of  whom  were  as  ex- 
—  208  — 


Paul's  Case 


actly  alike  as  their  homes,  and  of  a  piece  with  the 
monotony  in  which  they  lived.  Paul  never  went 
up  Cordelia  Street  without  a  shudder  of  loathing. 
His  home  was  next  the  house  of  the  Cumberland 
minister.  He  approached  it  tonight  with  the 
nerveless  sense  of  defeat,  the  hopeless  feeling  of 
sinking  back  forever  into  ugliness  and  common- 
ness that  he  had  always  had  when  he  came  home. 
The  moment  he  turned  into  Cordelia  Street  he  felt 
the  waters  close  above  his  head.  After  each  of 
these  orgies  of  living,  he  experienced  all  the  physi- 
cal depression  which  follows  a  debauch ;  the  loath- 
ing of  respectable  beds,  of  common  food,  of  a 
house  permeated  by  kitchen  odours;  a  shuddering 
repulsion  for  the  flavourless,  colourless  mass  of 
every-day  existence;  a  morbid  desire  for  cool 
things  and  soft  lights  and  fresh  flowers. 

The  nearer  he  approached  the  house,  the  more 
absolutely  unequal  Paul  felt  to  the  sight  of  it  all; 
his  ugly  sleeping  chamber;  the  cold  bath-room 
with  the  grimy  zinc  tub,  the  cracked  mirror,  the 
dripping  spiggots;  his  father,  at  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  his  hairy  legs  sticking  out  from  his  night- 
shirt, his  feet  thrust  into  carpet  slippers.  He  was 
so  much  later  than  usual  that  there  would  cer- 
tainly be  inquiries  and  reproaches.  Paul  stopped 
short  before  the  door.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
be  accosted  by  his  father  tonight;  that  he  could 
not  toss  again  on  that  miserable  bed.  He  would 
— •.  209  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

not  go  in.  He  would  tell  his  father  that  he  had 
no  car  fare,  and  it  was  raining  so  hard  he  had  gone 
home  with  one  of  the  boys  and  stayed  all  night. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  wet  and  cold.  He  went 
around  to  the  back  of  the  house  and  tried  one  of 
the  basement  windows,  found  it  open,  raised  it 
cautiously,  and  scrambled  down  the  cellar  wall 
to  the  floor..  There  he  stood,  holding  his  breath, 
terrified  by  the  noise  he  had  made;  but  the  floor 
above  him  was  silent,  and  there  was  no  creak  on 
the  stairs.  He  found  a  soap-box,  and  carried  it 
over  to  the  soft  ring  of  light  that  streamed  from 
the  furnace  door,  and  sat  down.  He  was  horribly 
afraid  of  rats,  so  he  did  not  try  to  sleep,  but  sat 
looking  distrustfully  at  the  dark,  still  terrified 
lest  he  might  have  awakened  his  father.  In  such 
reactions,  after  one  of  the  experiences  which  made 
days  and  nights  out  of  the  dreary  blanks  of  the 
calendar,  when  his  senses  were  deadened,  Paul's 
head  was  always  singularly  clear.  Suppose  his 
father  had  heard  him  getting  in  at  the  window 
and  had  come  down  and  shot  him  for  a  burglar? 
Then,  again,  suppose  his  father  had  come  down, 
pistol  in  hand,  and  he  had  cried  out  in  time  to  save 
himself,  and  his  father  had  been  horrified  to  think 
how  nearly  he  had  killed  him?  Then,  again,  sup- 
pose a  day  should  come  when  his  father  would  re- 
member that  night,  and  wish  there  had  been  no 
warning  cry  to  stay  his  hand?  With  this  last 
—  210  — 


Paul's  Case 


supposition   Paul   entertained  himself  until  day- 
break. 

The  following  Sunday  was  fine;  the  sodden 
November  chill  was  broken  by  the  last  flash  of 
autumnal  summer.  In  the  morning  Paul  had  to 
go  to  church  and  Sabbath-school,  as  always.  On 
seasonable  Sunday  afternoons  the  burghers  of 
Cordelia  Street  usually  sat  out  on  their  front 
"  stoops/'  and  talked  to  their  neighbours  on  the 
next  stoop,  or  called  to  those  across  the  street  in 
neighbourly  fashion.  The  men  sat  placidly  on 
gay  cushions  placed  upon  the  steps  that  led  down 
to  the  sidewalk,  while  the  women,  in  their  Sun- 
day "  waists,"  sat  in  rockers  on  the  cramped 
porches,  pretending  to  be  greatly  at  their  ease. 
The  children  played  in  the  streets;  there  were  so 
many  of  them  that  the  place  resembled  the  recre- 
ation grounds  of  a  kindergarten.  The  men  on 
the  steps  —  all  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  their  vests 
unbuttoned  —  sat  with  their  legs  well  apart, 
their  stomachs  comfortably  protruding,  and  talked 
of  the  prices  of  things,  or  told  anecdotes  of  the 
sagacity  of  their  various  chiefs  and  overlords. 
They  occasionally  looked  over  the  multitude  of 
squabbling  children,  listened  affectionately  to  their 
high-pitched,  nasal  voices,  smiling  to  see  their  own 
proclivities  reproduced  in  their  offspring,  and  in- 
terspersed their  legends  of  the  iron  kings  with 
remarks  about  their  sons'  progress  at  school,  their 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

grades  in  arithmetic,  and  the  amounts  they  had 
saved  in  their  toy  banks. 

On  this  last  Sunday  of  November,  Paul  sat  all 
the  afternoon  on  the  lowest  step  of  his  "  stoop," 
staring  into  the  street,  while  his  sisters,  in  their 
rockers,  were  talking  to  the  minister's  daughters 
next  door  about  how  many  shirt-waists  they  had 
made  in  the  last  week,  and  how  many  waffles  some 
one  had  eaten  at  the  last  church  supper.  When 
the  weather  was  warm,  and  his  father  was  in  a 
particularly  jovial  frame  of  mind,  the  girls  made 
lemonade,  which  was  always  brought  out  in  a 
red-glass  pitcher,  ornamented  with  forget-me- 
nots  in  blue  enamel.  This  the  girls  thought  very 
fine,  and  the  neighbours  joked  about  the  suspicious 
colour  of  the  pitcher. 

Today  Paul's  father,  on  the  top  step,  was  talk- 
ing to  a  young  man  who  shifted  a  restless  baby 
from  knee  to  knee.  He  happened  to  be  the  young 
man  who  was  daily  held  up  to  Paul  as  a  model, 
and  after  whom  it  was  his  father's  dearest  hope 
that  he  would  pattern.  This  young  man  was  of 
a  ruddy  complexion,  with  a  compressed,  red 
mouth,  and  faded,  near-sighted  eyes,  over  which 
he  wore  thick  spectacles,  with  gold  bows  that 
curved  about  his  ears.  He  was  clerk  to  one  of 
the  magnates  of  a  great  steel  corporation,  and 
was  looked  upon  in  Cordelia  Street  as  a  young 
man  with  a  future.  There  was  a  story  that,  some 
—  212  — 


Paul's  Case 


five  years  ago  —  he  was  now  barely  twenty-six  — 
he  had  been  a  trifle  '  dissipated,'  but  in  order  to 
curb  his  appetites  and  save  the  loss  of  time  and 
strength  that  a  sowing  of  wild  oats  might  have 
entailed,  he  had  taken  his  chiefs  advice,  oft  re- 
iterated to  his  employes,  and  at  twenty-one  had 
married  the  first  woman  whom  he  could  persuade 
to  share  his  fortunes.  She  happened  to  be  an 
angular  school-mistress,  much  older  than  he,  who 
also  wore  thick  glasses,  and  who  had  now  borne 
him  four  children,  all  near-sighted,  like  herself. 

The  young  man  was  relating  how  his  chief, 
now  cruising  in  the  Mediterranean,  kept  in  touch 
with  all  the  details  of  the  business,  arranging  his 
office  hours  on  his  yacht  just  as  though  he  were 
at  home,  and  "  knocking  off  work  enough  to  keep 
two  stenographers  busy."  His  father  told,  in 
turn,  the  plan  his  corporation  was  considering,  of 
putting  in  an  electric  railway  plant  at  Cairo. 
Paul  snapped  his  teeth;  he  had  an  awful  appre- 
hension that  they  might  spoil  it  all  before  he  got 
there.  Yet  he  rather  liked  to  hear  these  legends 
of  the  iron  kings,  that  were  told  and  retold  on  Sun- 
days and  holidays;  these  stories  of  palaces  in 
Venice,  yachts  on  the  Mediterranean,  and  high 
play  at  Monte  Carlo  appealed  to  his  fancy,  and 
he  was  interested  in  the  triumphs  of  cash  boys 
who  had  become  famous,  though  he  had  no  mind 
for  the  cash-boy  stage. 

—  213  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

After  supper  was  over,  and  he  had  helped  to 
dry  the  dishes,  Paul  nervously  asked  his  father 
whether  he  could  go  to  George's  to  get  some  help 
in  his  geometry,  and  still  more  nervously  asked 
for  car-fare.  This  latter  request  he  had  to  repeat, 
as  his  father,  on  principle,  did  not  like  to  hear 
requests  for  money,  whether  much  or  little.  He 
asked  Paul  whether  he  could  not  go  to  some  boy 
who  lived  nearer,  and  told  him  that  he  ought  not 
to  leave  his  school  work  until  Sunday;  but  he 
gave  him  the  dime.  He  was  not  a  poor  man,  but 
he  had  a  worthy  ambition  to  come  up  in  the 
world.  His  only  reason  for  allowing  Paul  to 
usher  was  that  he  thought  a  boy  ought  to  be  earn- 
ing a  little. 

Paul  bounded  upstairs,  scrubbed  the  greasy 
odour  of  the  dish-water  from  his  hands  with  the 
ill-smelling  soap  he  hated,  and  then  shook  over 
his  fingers  a  few  drops  of  violet  water  from  the 
bottle  he  kept  hidden  in  his  drawer.  He  left  the 
house  with  his  geometry  conspicuously  under  his 
arm,  and  the  moment  he  got  out  of  Cordelia 
Street  and  boarded  a  downtown  car,  he  shook  off 
the  lethargy  of  two  deadening  days,  and  began 
to  live  again. 

The  leading  juvenile  of  the  permanent  stock 

company  which  played  at  one  of  the  downtown 

theatres  was  an  acquaintance  of  Paul's,  and  the 

boy  had  been  invited  to  drop  in  at  the  Sunday- 

—  214  — 


PauVs  Case 


night  rehearsals  whenever  he  could.  For  more 
than  a  year  Paul  had  spent  every  available  mo- 
ment loitering  about  Charley  Edwards's  dressing- 
room.  He  had  won  a  place  among  Edwards's 
following  not  only  because  the  young  actor,  who 
could  not  afford  to  employ  a  dresser,  often  found 
him  useful,  but  because  he  recognized  in  Paul 
something  akin  to  what  churchmen  term  "  voca- 


tion." 


It  was  at  the  theatre  and  at  Carnegie  Hall 
that  Paul  really  lived;  the  rest  was  but  a  sleep 
and  a  forgetting.  This  was  Paul's  fairy  tale,  and 
it  had  for  him  all  the  allurement  of  a  secret  love. 
The  moment  he  inhaled  the  gassy,  painty,  dusty 
odour  behind  the  scenes,  he  breathed  like  a  pris- 
oner set  free,  and  felt  within  him  the  possibility 
of  doing  or  saying  splendid,  brilliant  things.  The 
moment  the  cracked  orchestra  beat  out  the  over- 
ture from  Martha,  or  jerked  at  the  serenade  from 
Rigoletto,  all  stupid  and  ugly  things  slid  from  him, 
and  his  senses  were  deliciously,  yet  delicately 
fired. 

Perhaps  it  was  because,  in  Paul's  world,  the 
natural  nearly  always  wore  the  guise  of  ugliness, 
that  a  certain  element  of  artificiality  seemed  to 
him  necessary  in  beauty.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
his  experience  of  life  elsewhere  was  so  full  of  Sab- 
bath-school picnics,  petty  economies,  wholesome 
advice  as  to  how  to  succeed  in  life,  and  the  un- 
—  215  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

escapable  odours  of  cooking,  that  he  found  this 
existence  so  alluring,  these  smartly-clad  men  and 
women  so  attractive,  that  he  was  so  moved  by 
these  starry  apple  orchards  that  bloomed  peren- 
nially under  the  lime-light. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  put  it  strongly  enough 
how  convincingly  the  stage  entrance  of  that  the- 
atre was  for  Paul  the  actual  portal  of  Romance. 
Certainly  none  of  the  company  ever  suspected  it, 
least  of  all  Charley  Edwards.  It  was  very  like 
the  old  stories  that  used  to  float  about  London 
of  fabulously  rich  Jews,  who  had  subterranean 
halls,  with  palms,  and  fountains,  and  soft  lamps 
and  richly  apparelled  women  who  never  saw  the 
disenchanting  light  of  London  day.  So,  in  the 
midst  of  that  smoke-palled  city,  enamoured  of 
figures  and  grimy  toil,  Paul  had  his  secret  tem- 
ple, his  wishing-carpet,  his  bit  of  blue-and-white 
Mediterranean  shore  bathed  in  perpetual  sunshine. 

Several  of  Paul's  teachers  had  a  theory  that  his 
imagination  had  been  perverted  by  garish  fiction; 
but  the  truth  was,  he  scarcely  ever  read  at  all. 
The  books  at  home  were  not  such  as  would  either 
tempt  or  corrupt  a  youthful  mind,  and  as  for 
reading  the  novels  that  some  of  his  friends  urged 
upon  him  —  well,  he  got  what  he  wanted  much 
more  quickly  from  music ;  any  sort  of  music,  from 
an  orchestra  to  a  barrel  organ.  He  needed  only 
the  spark,  the  indescribable  thrill  that  made  his 
—  216  — 


Paul's  Case 


imagination  master  of  his  senses,  and  he  could 
make  plots  and  pictures  enough  of  his  own.  It 
was  equally  true  that  he  was  not  stage-struck  — 
not,  at  any  rate,  in  the  usual  acceptation  of  that 
expression.  He  had  no  desire  to  become  an  actor, 
any  more  than  he  had  to  become  a  musician.  He 
felt  no  necessity  to  do  any  of  these  things;  what 
he  wanted  was  to  see,  to  be  in  the  atmosphere, 
float  on  the  wave  of  it,  to  be  carried  out,  blue 
league  after  blue  league,  away  from  everything. 

After  a  night  behind  the  scenes,  Paul  found 
the  school-room  more  than  ever  repulsive;  the 
bare  floors  and  naked  walls;  the  prosy  men  who 
never  wore  frock  coats,  or  violets  in  their  button- 
holes; the  women  with  their  dull  gowns,  shrill 
voices,  and  pitiful  seriousness  about  prepositions 
that  govern  the  dative.  He  could  not  bear  to 
have  the  other  pupils  think,  for  a  moment,  that  he 
took  these  people  seriously;  he  must  convey  to 
them  that  he  considered  it  all  trivial,  and  was 
there  only  by  way  of  a  joke,  anyway.  He  had 
autograph  pictures  of  all  the  members  of  the  stock 
company  which  he  showed  his  classmates,  telling 
them  the  most  incredible  stories  of  his  familiarity 
with  these  people,  of  his  acquaintance  with  the 
soloists  who  came  to  Carnegie  Hall,  his  suppers 
with  them  and  the  flowers  he  sent  them.  When 
these  stories  lost  their  effect,  and  his  audience 
grew  listless,  he  would  bid  all  the  boys  good-bye, 
—  217  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

announcing  that  he  was  going  to  travel  for  awhile ; 
going  to  Naples,  to  California,  to  Egypt.  Then, 
next  Monday,  he  would  slip  back,  conscious  and 
nervously  smiling;  his  sister  was  ill,  and  he  would 
have  to  defer  his  voyage  until  spring. 

Matters  went  steadily  worse  with  Paul  at 
school.  In  the  itch  to  let  his  instructors  know  how 
heartily  he  despised  them,  and  how  thoroughly 
he  was  appreciated  elsewhere,  he  mentioned  once 
or  twice  that  he  had  no  time  to  fool  with  the- 
orems ;  adding  —  with  a  twitch  of  the  eyebrows 
and  a  touch  of  that  nervous  bravado  which  so 
perplexed  them  —  that  he  was  helping  the  people 
down  at  the  stock  company ;  they  were  old  friends 
of  his. 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  was,  that  the  Princi- 
pal went  to  Paul's  father,  and  Paul  was  taken 
out  of  school  and  put  to  work.  The  manager  at 
Carnegie  Hall  was  told  to  get  another  usher  in 
his  stead;  the  doorkeeper  at  the  theatre  was 
warned  not  to  admit  him  to  the  house ;  and  Charley 
Edwards  remorsefully  promised  the  boy's  father 
not  to  see  him  again. 

The  members  of  the  stock  company  were  vastly 
amused  when  some  of  Paul's  stories  reached  them 
—  especially  the  women.  They  were  hard-work- 
ing women,  most  of  them  supporting  indolent  hus- 
bands or  brothers,  and  they  laughed  rather  bit- 
terly at  having  stirred  the  boy  to  such  fervid  and 
—  218  — 


Paul's  Case 


florid  inventions.     They  agreed  with  the  faculty 
and  with  his  father,  that  Paul's  was  a  bad  case. 

The  east-bound  train  was  ploughing  through  a 
January  snow-storm;  the  dull  dawn  was  beginning 
to  show  grey  when  the  engine  whistled  a  mile 
out  of  Newark.  Paul  started  up  from  the  seat 
where  he  had  lain  curled  in  uneasy  slumber,  rubbed 
the  breath-misted  window  glass  with  his  hand, 
and  peered  out.  The  snow  was  whirling  in  curl- 
ing eddies  above  the  white  bottom  lands,  and  the 
drifts  lay  already  deep  in  the  fields  and  along 
the  fences,  while  here  and  there  the  long  dead 
grass  and  dried  weed  stalks  protruded  black  above 
it.  Lights  shone  from  the  scattered  houses,  and 
a  gang  of  labourers  who  stood  beside  the  track 
waved  their  lanterns. 

Paul  had  slept  very  little,  and  he  felt  grimy  and 
uncomfortable.  He  had  made  the  all-night  jour- 
ney in  a  day  coach  because  he  was  afraid  if  he  took 
a  Pullman  he  might  be  seen  by  some  Pittsburgh 
business  man  who  had  noticed  him  in  Denny  & 
Carson's  office.  When  the  whistle  woke  him,  he 
clutched  quickly  at  his  breast  pocket,  glancing 
about  him  with  an  uncertain  smile.  But  the  little, 
clay-bespattered  Italians  were  still  sleeping,  the 
slatternly  women  across  the  aisle  were  in  open- 
mouthed  oblivion,  and  even  the  crumby,  crying 
babies  were  for  the  nonce  stilled.  Paul  settled 
—  219  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

back  to  struggle  with  his  impatience  as  best  he 
could. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  Jersey  City  station, 
he  hurried  through  his  breakfast,  manifestly  ill  at 
ease  and  keeping  a  sharp  eye  about  him.  After 
he  reached  the  Twenty-third  Street  station,  he 
consulted  a  cabman,  and  had  himself  driven  to  a 
men's  furnishing  establishment  which  was  just 
opening  for  the  day.  He  spent  upward  of  two 
hours  there,  buying  with  endless  reconsidering 
and  great  care.  His  new  street  suit  he  put  on  in 
the  fitting-room;  the  frock  coat  and  dress  clothes 
he  had  bundled  into  the  cab  with  his  new  shirts. 
Then  he  drove  to  a  hatter's  and  a  shoe  house. 
His  next  errand  was  at  Tiffany's,  where  he  se- 
lected silver  mounted  brushes  and  a  scarf-pin. 
He  would  not  wait  to  have  his  silver  marked,  he 
said.  Lastly,  he  stopped  at  a  trunk  shop  on 
Broadway,  and  had  his  purchases  packed  into  va- 
rious travelling  bags. 

It  was  a  little  after  one  o'clock  when  he  drove 
up  to  the  Waldorf,  and,  after  settling  with  the 
cabman,  went  into  the  office.  He  registered  from 
Washington;  said  his  mother  and  father  had  been 
abroad,  and  that  he  had  come  down  to  await  the 
arrival  of  their  steamer.  He  told  his  story 
plausibly  and  had  no  trouble,  since  he  offered  to 
pay  for  them  in  advance,  in  engaging  his  rooms; 
a  sleeping-room,  sitting-room  and  bath. 
—  220  — 


Paul's  Case 


Not  once,  but  a  hundred  times  Paul  had 
planned  this  entry  into  New  York.  He  had  gone 
over  every  detail  of  it  with  Charley  Edwards,  and 
in  his  scrap  book  at  home  there  were  pages  of  de- 
scription about  New  York  hotels,  cut  from  the 
Sunday  papers. 

When  he  was  shown  to  his  sitting-room  on  the 
eighth  floor,  he  saw  at  a  glance  that  everything 
was  as  it  should  be;  there  was  but  one  detail  in 
his  mental  picture  that  the  place  did  not  realize, 
so  he  rang  for  the  bell  boy  and  sent  him  down  for 
flowers.  He  moved  about  nervously  until  the 
boy  returned,  putting  away  his  new  linen  and  fin- 
gering it  delightedly  as  he  did  so.  When  the 
flowers  came,  he  put  them  hastily  into  water,  and 
then  tumbled  into  a  hot  bath.  Presently  he  came 
out  of  his  white  bath-room,  resplendent  in  his  new 
silk  underwear,  and  playing  with  the  tassels  of  his 
red  robe.  The  snow  was  whirling  so  fiercely  out- 
side his  windows  that  he  could  scarcely  see  across 
the  street;  but  within,  the  air  was  deliciously  soft 
and  fragrant.  He  put  the  violets  and  jonquils 
on  the  tabouret  beside  the  couch,  and  threw  himself 
down  with  a  long  sigh,  covering  himself  with  a 
Roman  blanket.  He  was  thoroughly  tired;  he 
had  been  in  such  haste,  he  had  stood  up  to  such 
a  strain,  covered  so  much  ground  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  that  he  wanted  to  think  how 
it  had  all  come  about.  Lulled  by  the  sound  of  the 
— .  221  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

wind,  the  warm  air,  and  the  cool  fragrance  of  the 
flowers,  he  sank  into  deep,  drowsy  retrospection. 

It  had  been  wonderfully  simple ;  when  they  had 
shut  him  out  of  the  theatre  and  concert  hall, 
when  they  had  taken  away  his  bone,  the  whole 
thing  was  virtually  determined.  The  rest  was  a 
mere  matter  of  opportunity.  The  only  thing  that 
at  all  surprised  him  was  his  own  courage  —  for  he 
realized  well  enough  that  he  had  always  been  tor- 
mented by  fear,  a  sort  of  apprehensive  dread  that, 
of  late  years,  as  the  meshes  of  the  lies  he  had 
told  closed  about  him,  had  been  pulling  the  mus- 
cles of  his  body  tighter  and  tighter.  Until  now, 
he  could  not  remember  a  time  when  he  had  not 
been  dreading  something.  Even  when  he  was  a 
little  boy,  it  was  always  there  —  behind  him,  or 
before,  or  on  either  side.  There  had  always  been 
the  shadowed  corner,  the  dark  place  into  which 
he  dared  not  look,  but  from  which  something 
seemed  always  to  be  watching  him  —  and  Paul 
had  done  things  that  were  not  pretty  to  watch,  he 
knew. 

But  now  he  had  a  curious  sense  of  relief,  as 
though  he  had  at  last  thrown  down  the  gauntlet 
to  the  thing  in  the  corner. 

Yet  it  was  but  a  day  since  he  had  been  sulking 
in  the  traces;  but  yesterday  afternoon  that  he  had 
been  sent  to  the  bank  with  Denny  &  Carson's  de- 
posit, as  usual  —  but  this  time  he  was  instructed 
—  222  — 


Paul's  Case 


to  leave  the  book  to  be  balanced.  There  was 
above  two  thousand  dollars  in  checks,  and  nearly 
a  thousand  in  the  bank  notes  which  he  had  taken 
from  the  book  and  quietly  transferred  to  his 
pocket.  At  the  bank  he  had  made  out  a  new  de- 
posit slip.  His  nerves  had  been  steady  enough  to 
permit  of  his  returning  to  the  office,  where  he  had 
finished  his  work  and  asked  for  a  full  day's  holi- 
day tomorrow,  Saturday,  giving  a  perfectly  rea- 
sonable pretext.  The  bank  book,  he  knew,  would 
not  be  returned  before  Monday  or  Tuesday,  and 
his  father  would  be  out  of  town  for  the  next  week. 
From  the  time  he  slipped  the  bank  notes  into  his 
pocket  until  he  boarded  the  night  train  for  New 
York,  he  had  not  known  a  moment's  hesitation. 

How  astonishingly  easy  it  had  all  been;  here  he 
was,  the  thing  done ;  and  this  time  there  would  be 
no  awakening,  no  figure  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 
He  watched  the  snow  flakes  whirling  by  his  win- 
dow until  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  He  bounded  up  with  a  start;  one  of 
his  precious  days  gone  already !  He  spent  nearly 
an  hour  in  dressing,  watching  every  stage  of  his 
toilet  carefully  in  the  mirror.  Everything  was 
quite  perfect;  he  was  exactly  the  kind  of  boy  he 
had  always  wanted  to  be. 

When  he  went  downstairs,  Paul  took  a  carriage 
and  drove  up  Fifth  avenue  toward  the  Park. 
—  223  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

The  snow  had  somewhat  abated;  carriages  and 
tradesmen's  wagons  were  hurrying  soundlessly  to 
and  fro  in  the  winter  twilight;  boys  in  woollen 
mufflers  were  shovelling  off  the  doorsteps;  the 
avenue  stages  made  fine  spots  of  colour  against 
the  white  street.  Here  and  there  on  the  corners 
whole  flower  gardens  blooming  behind  glass  win- 
dows, against  which  the  snow  flakes  stuck  and 
melted;  violets,  roses,  carnations,  lilies  of  the 
valley  —  somehow  vastly  more  lovely  and  allur- 
ing that  they  blossomed  thus  unnaturally  in  the 
snow.  The  Park  itself  was  a  wonderful  stage 
winter-piece. 

When  he  returned,  the  pause  of  the  twilight 
had  ceased,  and  the  tune  of  the  streets  had 
changed.  The  snow  was  falling  faster,  lights 
streamed  from  the  hotels  that  reared  their  many 
stories  fearlessly  up  into  the  storm,  defying  the 
raging  Atlantic  winds.  A  long,  black  stream  of 
carnages  poured  down  the  avenue,  intersected 
here  and  there  by  other  streams,  tending  horizon- 
tally. There  were  a  score  of  cabs  about  the  en- 
trance of  his  hotel,  and  his  driver  had  to  wait. 
Boys  in  livery  were  running  in  and  out  of  the  awn- 
ing stretched  across  the  sidewalk,  up  and  down  the 
red  velvet  carpet  laid  from  the  door  to  the  street. 
Above,  about,  within  it  all,  was  the  rumble  and 
roar,  the  hurry  and  toss  of  thousands  of  human 
beings  as  hot  for  pleasure  as  himself,  and  on 
—  224  — 


Paul's  Case 


every  side  of  him  towered  the  glaring  affirmation 
of  the  omnipotence  of  wealth. 

The  boy  set  his  teeth  and  drew  his  shoulders 
together  in  a  spasm  of  realization;  the  plot  of 
all  dramas,  the  text  of  all  romances,  the  nerve- 
stuff  of  all  sensations  was  whirling  about  him 
like  the  snow  flakes.  He  burnt  like  a  faggot  in  a 
tempest. 

When  Paul  came  down  to  dinner,  the  music 
of  the  orchestra  floated  up  the  elevator  shaft  to 
greet  him.  As  he  stepped  into  the  thronged 
corridor,  he  sank  back  into  one  of  the  chairs 
against  the  wall  to  get  his  breath.  The  lights, 
the  chatter,  the  perfumes,  the  bewildering  med- 
ley of  colour  —  he  had,  for  a  moment,  the  feel- 
ing of  not  being  able  to  stand  it.  But  only  for 
a  moment;  these  were  his  own  people,  he  told 
himself.  He  went  slowly  about  the  corridors, 
through  the  writing-rooms,  smoking-rooms,  re* 
ception-rooms,  as  though  he  were  exploring  the 
chambers  of  an  enchanted  palace,  built  and  peo- 
pled for  him  alone. 

When  he  reached  the  dining-room  he  sat  down 
at  a  table  near  a  window.  The  flowers,  the  white 
linen,  the  many-coloured  wine  glasses,  the  gay 
toilettes  of  the  women,  the  low  popping  of  corks, 
the  undulating  repetitions  of  the  Blue  Danube 
from  the  orchestra,  all  flooded  Paul's  dream  with 
bewildering  radiance.  When  the  roseate  tinge  of 
—  225  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

his  champagne  was  added  —  that  cold,  precious, 
bubbling  stuff  that  creamed  and  foamed  in  his 
glass  —  Paul  wondered  that  there  were  honest 
men  in  the  world  at  all.  This  was  what  all  the 
world  was  fighting  for,  he  reflected;  this  was 
what  all  the  struggle  was  about.  He  doubted  the 
reality  of  his  past.  Had  he  ever  known  a  place 
called  Cordelia  Street,  a  place  where  fagged  look- 
ing business  men  boarded  the  early  car?  Mere 
rivets  in  a  machine  they  seemed  to  Paul, —  sick- 
ening men,  with  combings  of  children's  hair  al- 
ways hanging  to  their  coats,  and  the  smell  of 
cooking  in  their  clothes.  Cordelia  Street  —  Ah, 
that  belonged  to  another  time  and  country !  Had 
he  not  always  been  thus,  had  he  not  sat  here 
night  after  night,  from  as  far  back  as  he  could 
remember,  looking  pensively  over  just  such  shim- 
mering textures,  and  slowly  twirling  the  stem  of  a 
glass  like  this  one  between  his  thumb  and  middle 
finger?  He  rather  thought  he  had. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  abashed  or  lonely.  He 
had  no  especial  desire  to  meet  or  to  know  any  of 
these  people;  all  he  demanded  was  the  right  to 
look  on  and  conjecture,  to  watch  the  pageant. 
The  mere  stage  properties  were  all  he  contended 
for.  Nor  was  he  lonely  later  in  the  evening,  in 
his  loge  at  the  Opera.  He  was  entirely  rid  of 
his  nervous  misgivings,  of  his  forced  aggressive- 
ness, of  the  imperative  desire  to  show  himself 
—  226  — 


Paul's  Case 


different  from  his  surroundings.  He  felt  now 
that  his  surroundings  explained  him.  Nobody 
questioned  the  purple;  he  had  only  to  wear  it 
passively.  He  had  only  to  glance  down  at  his 
dress  coat  to  reassure  himself  that  here  it  would 
be  impossible  for  anyone  to  humiliate  him. 

He  found  it  hard  to  leave  his  beautiful  sitting- 
room  to  go  to  bed  that  night,  and  sat  long  watch- 
ing the  raging  storm  from  his  turret  window. 
When  he  went  to  sleep,  it  was  with  the  lights 
turned  on  in  his  bedroom;  partly  because  of  his 
old  timidity,  and  partly  so  that,  if  he  should 
wake  in  the  night,  there  would  be  no  wretched 
moment  of  doubt,  no  horrible  suspicion  of  yellow 
wall-paper,  or  of  Washington  and  Calvin  above 
his  bed. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  city  was  practically 
snow-bound.  Paul  breakfasted  late,  and  in  the 
afternoon  he  fell  in  with  a  wild  San  Francisco  boy, 
a  freshman  at  Yale,  who  said  he  had  run  down 
for  a  "  little  flyer "  over  Sunday.  The  young 
man  offered  to  show  Paul  the  night  side  of  the 
town,  and  the  two  boys  went  off  together  after 
dinner,  not  returning  to  the  hotel  until  seven 
o'clock  the  next  morning.  They  had  started  out 
in  the  confiding  warmth  of  a  champagne  friend- 
ship, but  their  parting  in  the  elevator  was  sin- 
gularly cool.  The  freshman  pulled  himself  to- 
gether to  make  his  train,  and  Paul  went  to  bed. 
—  227  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

He  awoke  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  very 
thirsty  and  dizzy,  and  rang  for  ice-water,  coffee, 
and  the  Pittsburgh  papers. 

On  the  part  of  the  hotel  management,  Paul  ex- 
cited no  suspicion.  There  was  this  to  be  said  for 
him,  that  he  wore  his  spoils  with  dignity  and  in 
no  way  made  himself  conspicuous.  His  chief 
greediness  lay  in  his  ears  and  eyes,  and  his  ex- 
cesses were  not  offensive  ones.  His  dearest 
pleasures  were  the  grey  winter  twilights  in  his 
sitting-room;  his  quiet  enjoyment  of  his  flowers, 
his  clothes,  his  wide  divan,  his  cigarette  and  his 
sense  of  power.  He  could  not  remember  a  time 
when  he  had  felt  so  at  peace  with  himself.  The 
mere  release  from  the  necessity  of  petty  lying, 
lying  every  day  and  every  day,  restored  his  self- 
respect.  He  had  never  lied  for  pleasure,  even 
at  school;  but  to  make  himself  noticed  and  ad- 
mired, to  assert  his  difference  from  other  Cor- 
delia Street  boys;  and  he  felt  a  good  deal  more 
manly,  more  honest,  even,  now  that  he  had  no 
need  for  boastful  pretensions,  now  that  he  could, 
as  his  actor  friends  used  to  say,  "  dress  the  part." 
It  was  characteristic  that  remorse  did  not  occur 
to  him.  His  golden  days  went  by  without  a 
shadow,  and  he  made  each  as  perfect  as  he  could. 

On  the  eighth  day  after  his  arrival  in  New 
York,  he  found  the  whole  affair  exploited  in  the 
Pittsburgh  papers,  exploited  with  a  wealth  of  de- 
—  228 — • 


Paul's  Case 


tail  which  indicated  that  local  news  of  a  sensa- 
tional nature  was  at  a  low  ebb.  The  firm  of 
Denny  &  Carson  announced  that  the  boy's  father 
had  refunded  the  full  amount  of  his  theft,  and 
that  they  had  no  intention  of  prosecuting.  The 
Cumberland  minister  had  been  interviewed,  and 
expressed  his  hope  of  yet  reclaiming  the  mother- 
less lad,  and  Paul's  Sabbath-school  teacher  de- 
clared that  she  would  spare  no  effort  to  that 
end.  The  rumour  had  reached  Pittsburgh  that 
the  boy  had  been  seen  in  a  New  York  hotel,  and 
his  father  had  gone  East  to  find  him  and  bring 
him  home. 

Paul  had  just  come  in  to  dress  for  dinner;  he 
sank  into  a  chair,  weak  in  the  knees,  and  clasped 
his  head  in  his  hands.  It  was  to  be  worse  than 
jail,  even;  the  tepid  waters  of  Cordelia  Street 
were  to  close  over  him  finally  and  forever.  The 
grey  monotony  stretched  before  him  in  hopeless, 
unrelieved  years;  Sabbath-school,  Young  People's 
Meeting,  the  yellow-papered  room,  the  damp 
dish-towels;  it  all  rushed  back  upon  him  with 
sickening  vividness.  He  had  the  old  feeling  that 
the  orchestra  had  suddenly  stopped,  the  sinking 
sensation  that  the  play  was  over.  The  sweat 
broke  out  on  his  face,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
looked  about  him  with  his  white,  conscious  smile, 
and  winked  at  himself  in  the  mirror.  With  some- 
thing of  the  childish  belief  in  miracles  with  which 
— ;  229  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

he  had  so  often  gone  to  class,  all  his  lessons  un- 
learned, Paul  dressed  and  dashed  whistling  down 
the  corridor  to  the  elevator. 

He  had  no  sooner  entered  the  dining-room  and 
caught  the  measure  of  the  music,  than  his  remem- 
brance was  lightened  by  his  old  elastic  power  of 
claiming  the  moment,  mounting  with  it,  and  find- 
ing it  all  sufficient.  The  glare  and  glitter  about 
him,  the  mere  scenic  accessories  had  again,  and 
for  the  last  time,  their  old  potency.  He  would 
show  himself  that  he  was  game,  he  would  finish  the 
thing  splendidly.  He  doubted,  more  than  ever, 
the  existence  of  Cordelia  Street,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  drank  his  wine  recklessly.  Was  he  not, 
after  all,  one  of  these  fortunate  beings?  Was  he 
not  still  himself,  and  in  his  own  place?  He 
drummed  a  nervous  accompaniment  to  the  music 
and  looked  about  him,  telling  himself  over  and 
over  that  it  had  paid. 

He  reflected  drowsily,  to  the  swell  of  the  violin 
and  the  chill  sweetness  of  his  wine,  that  he  might 
have  done  it  more  wisely.  He  might  have  caught 
an  outbound  steamer  and  been  well  out  of  their 
clutches  before  now.  But  the  other  side  of  the 
world  had  seemed  too  far  away  and  too  uncer- 
tain then;  he  could  not  have  waited  for  it;  his 
need  had  been  too  sharp.  If  he  had  to  choose 
over  again,  he  would  do  the  same  thing  tomor- 
row. He  looked  affectionately  about  the  dining- 
—  230  — 


Paul's  Case 


room,  now  gilded  with  a  soft  mist.  Ah,  it  had 
paid  indeed! 

Paul  was  awakened  next  morning  by  a  painful 
throbbing  in  his  head  and  feet.  He  had  thrown 
himself  across  the  bed  without  undressing,  and 
had  slept  with  his  shoes  on.  His  limbs  and  hands 
were  lead  heavy,  and  his  tongue  and  throat  were 
parched.  There  came  upon  him  one  of  those 
fateful  attacks  of  clear-headedness  that  never  oc- 
curred except  when  he  was  physically  exhausted 
and  his  nerves  hung  loose.  He  lay  still  and 
closed  his  eyes  and  let  the  tide  of  realities  wash 
over  him. 

His  father  was  in  New  York;  "  stopping  at 
some  joint  or  other,"  he  told  himself.  The  mem- 
ory of  successive  summers  on  the  front  stoop  fell 
upon  him  like  a  weight  of  black  water.  He  had 
not  a  hundred  dollars  left;  and  he  knew  now, 
more  than  ever,  that  money  was  everything,  the 
wall  that  stood  between  all  he  loathed  and  all  he 
wanted.  The  thing  was  winding  itself  up;  he 
had  thought  of  that  on  his  first  glorious  day  in 
New  York,  and  had  even  provided  a  way  to  snap 
the  thread.  It  lay  on  his  dressing-table  now;  he 
had  got  it  out  last  night  when  he  came  blindly  up 
from  dinner, —  but  the  shiny  metal  hurt  his  eyes, 
and  he  disliked  the  look  of  it,  anyway. 

He  rose  and  moved  about  with  a  painful  effort, 
succumbing  now  and  again  to  attacks  of  nausea. 
—  231  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

It  was  the  old  depression  exaggerated;  all  the 
world  had  become  Cordelia  Street.  Yet  some- 
how he  was  not  afraid  of  anything,  was  abso- 
lutely calm;  perhaps  because  he  had  looked  into 
the  dark  corner  at  last,  and  knew.  It  was  bad 
enough,  what  he  saw  there;  but  somehow  not  so 
bad  as  his  long  fear  of  it  had  been.  He  saw 
everything  clearly  now.  He  had  a  feeling  that 
he  had  made  the  best  of  it,  that  he  had  lived  the 
sort  of  life  he  was  meant  to  live,  and  for  half  an 
hour  he  sat  staring  at  the  revolver.  But  he  told 
himself  that  was  not  the  way,  so  he  went  down- 
stairs and  took  a  cab  to  the  ferry. 

When  Paul  arrived  at  Newark,  he  got  off  the 
train  and  took  another  cab,  directing  the  driver 
to  follow  the  Pennsylvania  tracks  out  of  the  town. 
The  snow  lay  heavy  on  the  roadways  and  had 
drifted  deep  in  the  open  fields.  Only  here  and 
there  the  dead  grass  or  dried  weed  stalks  pro- 
jected, singularly  black,  above  it.  Once  well  into 
the  country,  Paul  dismissed  the  carriage  and 
walked,  floundering  along  the  tracks,  his  mind 
a  medley  of  irrelevant  things.  He  seemed  to 
hold  in  his  brain  an  actual  picture  of  everything 
he  had  seen  that  morning.  He  remembered 
every  feature  of  both  his  drivers,  the  toothless 
old  woman  from  whom  he  had  bought  the  red 
flowers  in  his  coat,  the  agent  from  whom  he  had 
got  his  ticket,  and  all  of  his  fellow-passengers  on 
—  232  — 


Paul's  Case 


the  ferry.  His  mind,  unable  to  cope  with  vital 
matters  near  at  hand,  worked  feverishly  and  deftly 
at  sorting  and  grouping  these  images.  They 
made  for  him  a  part  of  the  ugliness  of  the  world, 
of  the  ache  in  his  head,  and  the  bitter  burning  on 
his  tongue.  He  stooped  and  put  a  handful  of 
snow  into  his  mouth  as  he  walked,  but  that,  too, 
seemed  hot.  When  he  reached  a  little  hillside, 
where  the  tracks  ran  through  a  cut  some  twenty 
feet  below  him,  he  stopped  and  sat  down. 

The  carnations  in  his  coat  were  drooping  with 
the  cold,  he  noticed;  all  their  red  glory  over.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  all  the  flowers  he  had  seen 
in  the  show  windows  that  first  night  must  have 
gone  the  same  way,  long  before  this.  It  was  only 
one  splendid  breath  they  had,  in  spite  of  their 
brave  mockery  at  the  winter  outside  the  glass. 
It  was  a  losing  game  in  the  end,  it  seemed,  this 
revolt  against  the  homilies  by  which  the  world  is 
run.  Paul  took  one  of  the  blossoms  carefully 
from  his  coat  and  scooped  a  little  hole  in  the 
snow,  where  he  covered  it  up.  Then  he  dozed  a 
while,  from  his  weak  condition,  seeming  insensible 
to  the  cold. 

The  sound  of  an  approaching  train  woke  him, 
and  he  started  to  his  feet,  remembering  only  his 
resolution,  and  afraid  lest  he  should  be  too  late. 
He  stood  watching  the  approaching  locomotive, 
his  teeth  chattering,  his  lips  drawn  away  from 
—  233  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

them  in  a  frightened  smile;  once  or  twice  he 
glanced  nervously  sidewise,  as  though  he  were 
being  watched.  When  the  right  moment  came, 
he  jumped.  As  he  fell,  the  folly  of  his  haste  oc- 
curred to  him  with  merciless  clearness,  the  vast- 
ness  of  what  he  had  left  undone.  There  flashed 
through  his  brain,  clearer  than  ever  before,  the 
blue  of  Adriatic  water,  the  yellow  of  Algerian 
sands. 

He  felt  something  strike  his  chest, —  his  body 
was  being  thrown  swiftly  through  the  air,  on  and 
on,  immeasurably  far  and  fast,  while  his  limbs 
gently  relaxed.  Then,  because  the  picture  mak- 
ing mechanism  was  crushed,  the  disturbing  visions 
flashed  into  black,  and  Paul  dropped  back  into  the 
immense  design  of  things. 


234  — 


A    Wagner  Matinee 

I  RECEIVED  one  morning  a  letter,  written 
in  pale  ink  on  glassy,  blue-lined  note-paper, 
and  bearing  the  postmark  of  a  little  Nebraska 
village.  This  communication,  worn  and  rubbed, 
looking  as  if  it  had  been  carried  for  some  days  in 
a  coat  pocket  that  was  none  too  clean,  was  from 
my  uncle  Howard,  and  informed  me  that  his  wife 
had  been  left  a  small  legacy  by  a  bachelor  rela- 
tive, and  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  go 
to  Boston  to  attend  to  the  settling  of  the  estate. 
He  requested  me  to  meet  her  at  the  station  and 
render  her  whatever  services  might  be  necessary. 
On  examining  the  date  indicated  as  that  of  her 
arrival,  I  found  it  to  be  no  later  than  tomorrow. 
He  had  characteristically  delayed  writing  until, 
had  I  been  away  from  home  for  a  day,  I  must 
have  missed  my  aunt  altogether. 

The  name  of  my  Aunt  Georgiana  opened  be- 
fore me  a  gulf  of  recollection  so  wide  and  deep 
that,  as  the  letter  dropped  from  my  hand,  I  felt 
suddenly  a  stranger  to  all  the  present  conditions 
of  my  existence,  wholly  ill  at  ease  and  out  of 
—  235  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

place  amid  the  familiar  surroundings  of  my  study. 
I  became,  in  short,  the  gangling  farmer^boy  my 
aunt  had  known,  scourged  with  chilblains  and 
bashfulness,  my  hands  cracked  and  sore  from  the 
corn  husking.  I  sat  again  before  her  parlour 
organ,  fumbling  the  scales  with  my  stiff,  red  fin- 
gers, while  she,  beside  me,  made  canvas  mittens 
for  the  huskers. 

The  next  morning,  after  preparing  my  land- 
lady for  a  visitor,  I  set  out  for  the  station. 
When  the  train  arrived  I  had  some  difficulty  in 
finding  my  aunt.  She  was  the  last  of  the  passen- 
gers to  alight,  and  it  was  not  until  I  got  her  into 
the  carriage  that  she  seemed  really  to  recognize 
me.  She  had  come  all  the  way  in  a  day  coach; 
her  linen  duster  had  become  black  with  soot  and 
her  black  bonnet  grey  with  dust  during  the  jour- 
ney. When  we  arrived  at  my  boarding-house  the 
landlady  put  her  to  bed  at  once  and  I  did  not  see 
her  again  until  the  next  morning. 

Whatever  shock  Mrs.  Springer  experienced  at 
my  aunt's  appearance,  she  considerately  concealed. 
As  for  myself,  I  saw  my  aunt's  battered  figure  with 
that  feeling  of  awe  and  respect  with  which  we  be- 
hold explorers  who  have  left  their  ears  and  fingers 
north  of  Franz-Joseph-Land,  or  their  health 
somewhere  along  the  Upper  Congo.  My  Aunt 
Georgiana  had  been  a  music  teacher  at  the  Boston 
Conservatory,  somewhere  back  in  the  latter  six- 
—  236  — 


A  Wagner  Matinee 


ties.  One  summer,  while  visiting  in  the  little  vil- 
lage among  the  Green  Mountains  where  her  an- 
cestors had  dwelt  for  generations,  she  had  kindled 
the  callow  fancy  of  my  uncle,  Howard  Carpenter, 
then  an  idle,  shiftless  boy  of  twenty-one.  When 
she  returned  to  her  duties  in  Boston,  Howard  fol- 
lowed her,  and  the  upshot  of  this  infatuation  was 
that  she  eloped  with  him,  eluding  the  reproaches 
of  her  family  and  the  criticism  of  her  friends  by 
going  with  him  to  the  Nebraska  frontier.  Car- 
penter, who,  of  course,  had  no  money,  took  up  a 
homestead  in  Red  Willow  County,  fifty  miles  from 
the  railroad.  There  they  had  measured  off  their 
land  themselves,  driving  across  the  prairie  in  a 
wagon,  to  the  wheel  of  which  they  had  tied  a  red 
cotton  handkerchief,  and  counting  its  revolutions. 
They  built  a  dug-out  in  the  red  hillside,  one  of 
those  cave  dwellings  whose  inmates  so  often  re- 
verted to  primitive  conditions.  Their  water  they 
got  from  the  lagoons  where  the  buffalo  drank, 
and  their  slender  stock  of  provisions  was  always 
at  the  mercy  of  bands  of  roving  Indians.  For 
thirty  years  my  aunt  had  not  been  farther  than 
fifty  miles  from  the  homestead. 

I  owed  to  this  woman  most  of  the  good  that 
ever  came  my  way  in  my  boyhood,  and  had  a 
reverential  affection  for  her.  During  the  years 
when  I  was  riding  herd  for  my  uncle,  my  aunt, 
after  cooking  the  three  meals  —  the  first  of  which 
—  237  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

was  ready  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  —  and 
putting  the  six  children  to  bed,  would  often  stand 
until  midnight  at  her  ironing-board,  with  me  at 
the  kitchen  table  beside  her,  hearing  me  recite 
Latin  declensions  and  conjugations,  gently  shak- 
ing me  when  my  drowsy  head  sank  down  over  a 
page  of  irregular  verbs.  It  was  to  her,  at  her 
ironing  or  mending,  that  I  read  my  first  Shak- 
spere,  and  her  old  text-book  on  mythology  was  the 
first  that  ever  came  into  my  empty  hands.  She 
taught  me  my  scales  and  exercises  on  the  little 
parlour  organ  which  her  husband  had  bought  her 
after  fifteen  years  during  which  she  had  not  so 
much  as  seen  a  musical  instrument.  She  would 
sit  beside  me  by  the  hour,  darning  and  counting, 
while  I  struggled  with  the  "  Joyous  Farmer." 
She  seldom  talked  to  me  about  music,  and  I  un- 
derstood why.  Once  when  I  had  been  doggedly 
beating  out  some  easy  passages  from  an  old  score 
of  Euryanthe  I  had  found  among  her  music  books, 
she  came  up  to  me  and,  putting  her  hands  over  my 
eyes,  gently  drew  my  head  back  upon  her  shoul- 
der, saying  tremulously,  "  Don't  love  it  so  well, 
Clark,  or  it  may  he  taken  from  you." 

When  my  aunt  appeared  on  the  morning  after 
her  arrival  in  Boston,  she  was  still  in  a  semi- 
somnambulant  state.  She  seemed  not  to  realize 
that  she  was  in  the  city  where  she  had  spent  her 
youth,  the  place  longed  for  hungrily  half  a  life- 

-238- 


A  Wagner  Matinee 


time.  She  had  been  so  wretchedly  train-sick 
throughout  the  journey  that  she  had  no  recollec- 
tion of  anything  but  her  discomfort,  and,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  there  were  but  a  few  hours 
of  nightmare  between  the  farm  in  Red  Willow 
County  and  my  study  on  Newbury  Street.  I  had 
planned  a  little  pleasure  for  her  that  afternoon, 
to  repay  her  for  some  of  the  glorious  moments 
she  had  given  me  when  we  used  to  milk  together 
in  the  straw-thatched  cowshed  and  she,  because  I 
was  more  than  usually  tired,  or  because  her  hus- 
band had  spoken  sharply  to  me,  would  tell  me  of 
the  splendid  performance  of  the  Huguenots  she 
had  seen  in  Paris,  in  her  youth. 

At  two  o'clock  the  Symphony  Orchestra  was  to 
give  a  Wagner  program,  and  I  intended  to  take 
my  aunt;  though,  as  I  conversed  with  her,  I  grew 
doubtful  about  her  enjoyment  of  it.  I  suggested 
our  visiting  the  Conservatory  and  the  Common 
before  lunch,  but  she  seemed  altogether  too  timid 
to  wish  to  venture  out.  She  questioned  me  ab- 
sently about  various  changes  in  the  city,  but  she 
was  chiefly  concerned  that  she  had  forgotten  to 
leave  instructions  about  feeding  half-skimmed 
milk  to  a  certain  weakling  calf,  "  old  Maggie's 
calf,  you  know,  Clark,"  she  explained,  evidently 
having  forgotten  how  long  I  had  been  away.  She 
was  further  troubled  because  she  had  neglected  to 
tell  her  daughter  about  the  freshly-opened  kit  of 
—  239  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

mackerel  in  the  cellar,  which  would  spoil  if  it  were 
not  used  directly. 

I  asked  her  whether  she  had  ever  heard  any  of 
the  Wagnerian  operas,  and  found  that  she  had 
not,  though  she  was  perfectly  familiar  with  their 
respective  situations,  and  had  once  possessed  the 
piano  score  of  The  Flying  Dutchman.  I  began 
to  think  it  would  be  best  to  get  her  back  to  Red 
Willow  County  without  waking  her,  and  regretted 
having  suggested  the  concert. 

From  the  time  we  entered  the  concert  hall,  how- 
ever, she  was  a  trifle  less  passive  and  inert,  and 
for  the  first  time  seemed  to  perceive  her  surround- 
ings. I  had  felt  some  trepidation  lest  she  might 
become  aware  of  her  queer,  country  clothes,  or 
might  experience  some  painful  embarrassment  at 
stepping  suddenly  into  the  world  to  which  she  had 
been  dead  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  But,  again, 
I  found  how  superficially  I  had  judged  her.  She 
sat  looking  about  her  with  eyes  as  impersonal,  al- 
most as  stony,  as  those  with  which  the  granite 
Rameses  in  a  museum  watches  the  froth  and  fret 
that  ebbs  and  flows  about  his  pedestal.  I  have 
seen  this  same  aloofness  in  old  miners  who  drift 
into  the  Brown  hotel  at  Denver,  their  pockets  full 
of  bullion,  their  linen  soiled,  their  haggard  faces 
unshaven;  standing  in  the  thronged  corridors  as 
solitary  as  though  they  were  still  in  a  frozen  camp 
on  the  Yukon. 

—  240  — 


A  Wagner  Matinee 


The  matinee  audience  was  made  up  chiefly  of 
women.  One  lost  the  contour  of  faces  and 
figures,  indeed  any  effect  of  line  whatever,  and 
there  was  only  the  colour  of  bodices  past  counting, 
the  shimmer  of  fabrics  soft  and  firm,  silky  and 
sheer;  red,  mauve,  pink,  blue,  lilac,  purple,  ecru, 
rose,  yellow,  cream,  and  white,  all  the  colours 
that  an  impressionist  finds  in  a  sunlit  landscape, 
with  here  and  there  the  dead  shadow  of  a  frock 
coat.  My  Aunt  Georgiana  regarded  them  as 
though  they  had  been  so  many  daubs  of  tube- 
paint  on  a  palette.  \ 

When  the  musicians  came  out  and  took  their 
places,  she  gave  a  little  stir  of  anticipation,  and 
looked  with  quickening  interest  down  over  the  rail 
at  that  invariable  grouping,  perhaps  the  first 
wholly  familiar  thing  that  had  greeted  her  eye 
since  she  had  left  old  Maggie  and  her  weakling 
calf.  I  could  feel  how  all  those  details  sank  into 
her  soul,  for  I  had  not  forgotten  how  they  had 
sunk  into  mine  when  I  came  fresh  from  plough- 
ing forever  and  forever  between  green  aisles  of 
corn,  where,  as  in  a  treadmill,  one  might  walk 
from  daybreak  to  dusk  without  perceiving  a 
shadow  of  change.  The  clean  profiles  of  the  mu- 
sicians, the  gloss  of  their  linen,  the  dull  black  of 
their  coats,  the  beloved  shapes  of  the  instruments, 
the  patches  of  yellow  light  on  the  smooth,  var- 
nished bellies  of  the  'cellos  and  the  bass  viols  in 
—  241  — 


Youth  and  the  Bnght  Medusa 

the  rear,  the  restless,  wind-tossed  forest  of  fiddle 
necks  and  bows  —  I  recalled  how,  in  the  first  or- 
chestra I  ever  heard,  those  long  bow-strokes 
seemed  to  draw  the  heart  out  of  me,  as  a  con- 
jurer's stick  reels  out  yards  of  paper  ribbon  from 
a  hat. 

The  first  number  was  the  Tannhauser  overture. 
When  the  horns  drew  out  the  first  strain  of  the 
Pilgrim's  chorus,  Aunt  Georgiana  clutched  my 
coat  sleeve.  Then  it  was  I  first  realized  that  for 
her  this  broke  a  silence  of  thirty  years.  With 
the  battle  between  the  two  motives,  with  the 
frenzy  of  the  Venusberg  theme  and  its  ripping  of 
strings,  there  came  to  me  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  the  waste  and  wear  we  are  so  powerless  to  com- 
bat; and  I  saw  again  the  tall,  naked  house  on  the 
prairie,  black  and  grim  as  a  wooden  fortress ;  the 
black  pond  where  I  had  learned  to  swim,  its  mar- 
gin pitted  with  sun-dried  cattle  tracks;  the  rain 
gullied  clay  banks  about  the  naked  house,  the  four 
dwarf  ash  seedlings  where  the  dish-cloths  were 
always  hung  to  dry  before  the  kitchen  door.  The 
world  there  was  the  flat  world  of  the  ancients;  to 
the  east,  a  cornfield  that  stretched  to  daybreak; 
to  the  west,  a  corral  that  reached  to  sunset;  be- 
tween, the  conquests  of  peace,  dearer-bought  than 
those  of  war. 

The  overture  closed,  my  aunt  released  my  coat 
sleeve,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  sat  staring  dully 
—  242  — 


A  Wagner  Matinee 


at  the  orchestra.  What,  I  wondered,  did  she  get 
from  it?  She  had  been  a  good  pianist  in  her  day, 
I  knew,  and  her  musical  education  had  been 
broader  than  that  of  most  music  teachers  of  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ago.  She  had  often  told  me 
of  Mozart's  operas  and  Meyerbeer's,  and  I  could 
remember  hearing  her  sing,  years  ago,  certain 
melodies  of  Verdi.  When  I  had  fallen  ill  with 
a  fever  in  her  house  she  used  to  sit  by  my  cot  in 
the  evening  —  when  the  cool,  night  wind  blew  in 
through  the  faded  mosquito  netting  tacked  over 
the  window  and  I  lay  watching  a  certain  bright 
star  that  burned  red  above  the  cornfield  —  and 
sing  "  Home  to  our  mountains,  O,  let  us  return !  " 
in  a  way  fit  to  break  the  heart  of  a  Vermont  boy 
near  dead  of  homesickness  already. 

I  watched  her  closely  through  the  prelude  to 
Tristan  and  Isolde,  trying  vainly  to  conjecture 
what  that  seething  turmoil  of  strings  and  winds 
might  mean  to  her,  but  she  sat  mutely  staring  at 
the  violin  bows  that  drove  obliquely  downward, 
like  the  pelting  streaks  of  rain  in  a  summer 
shower.  Had  this  music  any  message  for  her? 
Had  she  enough  left  to  at  all  comprehend  this 
power  which  had  kindled  the  world  since  she  had 
left  it?  I  was  in  a  fever  of  curiosity,  but  Aunt 
Georgiana  sat  silent  upon  her  peak  in  Darien. 
She  preserved  this  utter  immobility  throughout 
the  number  from  The  Flying  Dutchman,  though 
—  243  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

her  fingers  worked  mechanically  upon  her  black 
dress,  as  if,  of  themselves,  they  were  recalling 
the  piano  score  they  had  once  played.  Poor 
hands !  They  had  been  stretched  and  twisted  into 
mere  tentacles  to  hold  and  lift  and  knead  with ;  — 
on  one  of  them  a  thin,  worn  band  that  had  once 
been  a  wedding  ring.  As  I  pressed  and  gently 
quieted  one  of  those  groping  hands,  I  remembered 
with  quivering  eyelids  their  services  for  me  in 
other  days. 

Soon  after  the  tenor  began  the  "  Prize  Song," 
I  heard  a  quick  drawn  breath  and  turned  to  my 
aunt.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  the  tears  were 
glistening  on  her  cheeks,  and  I  think,  in  a  mo- 
ment more,  they  were  in  my  eyes  as  well.  It  never 
really  died,  then  —  the  soul  which  can  suffer  so  ex- 
cruciatingly and  so  interminably;  it  withers  to  the 
outward  eye  only;  like  that  strange  moss  which 
can  lie  on  a  dusty  shelf  half  a  century  and  yet,  if 
placed  in  water,  grows  green  again.  She  wept  so 
throughout  the  development  and  elaboration  of 
the  melody. 

During  the  intermission  before  the  second  half, 
I  questioned  my  aunt  and  found  that  the  "  Prize 
Song  "  was  not  new  to  her.  Some  years  before 
there  had  drifted  to  the  farm  in  Red  Willow 
County  a  young  German,  a  tramp  cow-puncher, 
who  had  sung  in  the  chorus  at  Bayreuth  when  he 
was  a  boy,  along  with  the  other  peasant  boys  and 
—  244  — 


A  Wagner  Matinee 


girls.  Of  a  Sunday  morning  he  used  to  sit  on  his 
gingham-sheeted  bed  in  the  hands*  bedroom  which 
opened  off  the  kitchen,  cleaning  the  leather  of  his 
boots  and  saddle,  singing  the  "  Prize  Song,"  while 
my  aunt  went  about  her  work  in  the  kitchen. 
She  had  hovered  over  him  until  she  had  pre- 
vailed upon  him  to  join  the  country  church,  though 
his  sole  fitness  for  this  step,  in  so  far  as  I  could 
gather,  lay  in  his  boyish  face  and  his  possession 
of  this  divine  melody.  Shortly  afterward,  he  had 
gone  to  town  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  been  drunk 
for  several  days,  lost  his  money  at  a  faro  table, 
ridden  a  saddled  Texas  steer  on  a  bet,  and  dis- 
appeared with  a  fractured  collar-bone.  All  this 
my  aunt  told  me  huskily,  wanderingly,  as  though 
she  were  talking  in  the  weak  lapses  of  illness. 

'*  Well,  we  have  come  to  better  things  than  the 
old  Trovatore  at  any  rate,  Aunt  Georgie?"  I 
queried,  with  a  well  meant  effort  at  jocularity. 

Her  lip  quivered  and  she  hastily  put  her  hand- 
kerchief up  to  her  mouth.  From  behind  it  she 
murmured,  "  And  you  have  been  hearing  this  ever 
since  you  left  me,  Clark?  "  Her  question  was  the 
gentlest  and  saddest  of  reproaches. 

The  second  half  of  the  program  consisted  of 
four  numbers  from  the  Ring,  and  closed  with 
Siegfried's  funeral  march.  My  aunt  wept  quietly, 
but  almost  continuously,  as  a  shallow  vessel  over- 
flows in  a  rain-storm.  From  time  to  time  her  dim 
—  245  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

eyes  looked  up  at  the  lights,  burning  softly  under 
their  dull  glass  globes. 

The  deluge  of  sound  poured  on  and  on;  I 
never  knew  what  she  found  in  the  shining  current 
of  it;  I  never  knew  how  far  it  bore  her,  or  past 
what  happy  islands.  From  the  trembling  of  her 
face  I  could  well  believe  that  before  the  last 
number  she  had  been  carried  out  where  the 
myriad  graves  are,  into  the  grey,  nameless  bury- 
ing grounds  of  the  sea;  or  into  some  world  of 
death  vaster  yet,  where,  from  the  beginning  of 
the  world,  hope  has  lain  down  with  hope  and 
dream  with  dream  and,  renouncing,  slept. 

The  concert  was  over;  the  people  filed  out  of 
the  hall  chattering  and  laughing,  glad  to  relax 
and  find  the  living  level  again,  but  my  kins- 
woman made  no  effort  to  rise.  The  harpist 
slipped  the  green  felt  cover  over  his  instrument; 
the  flute-players  shook  the  water  from  their  mouth- 
pieces; the  men  of  the  orchestra  went  out  one  by 
one,  leaving  the  stage  to  the  chairs  and  music 
stands,  empty  as  a  winter  cornfield. 

I  spoke  to  my  aunt.  She  burst  into  tears  and 
sobbed  pleadingly.  "  I  don't  want  to  go,  Clark,  I 
don't  want  to  go !  " 

I  understood.  For  her,  just  outside  the  con- 
cert hall,  lay  the  black  pond  with  the  cattle- 
tracked  bluffs;  the  tall,  unpainted  house,  with 
—  246  — 


A  W  agner  Matinee 


weather-curled  boards,  naked  as  a  tower;  the 
crook-backed  ash  seedlings  where  the  dish-cloths 
hung  to  dry;  the  gaunt,  moulting  turkeys  picking 
up  refuse  about  the  kitchen  door. 


—  247  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 

A  GROUP  of  the  townspeople  stood  on  the 
station  siding  of  a  little  Kansas  town, 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  night  train, 
which  was  already  twenty  minutes  overdue.  The 
snow  had  fallen  thick  over  everything;  in  the  pale 
starlight  the  line  of  bluffs  across  the  wide,  white 
meadows  south  of  the  town  made  soft,  smoke- 
coloured  curves  against  the  clear  sky.  The  men 
on  the  siding  stood  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on 
the  other,  their  hands  thrust  deep  into  their 
trousers  pockets,  their  overcoats  open,  their  shoul- 
ders screwed  up  with  the  cold;  and  they  glanced 
from  time  to  time  toward  the  southeast,  where 
the  railroad  track  wound  along  the  river  shore. 
They  conversed  in  low  tones  and  moved  about  rest- 
lessly, seeming  uncertain  as  to  what  was  expected 
of  them.  There  was  but  one  of  the  company  who 
looked  as  if  he  knew  exactly  why  he  was  there, 
and  he  kept  conspicuously  apart;  walking  to  the 
far  end  of  the  platform,  returning  to  the  station 
door,  then  pacing  up  the  track  again,  his  chin  sunk 
in  the  high  collar  of  his  overcoat,  his  burly  shoul- 
ders drooping  forward,  his  gait  heavy  and  dogged. 
—  248  — 


The  Sculptor  s  Funeral 


Presently  he  was  approached  by  a  tall,  spare,  griz- 
zled man  clad  in  a  faded  Grand  Army  suit,  who 
shuffled  out  from  the  group  and  advanced  with  a 
certain  deference,  craning  his  neck  forward  until 
his  back  made  the  angle  of  a  jack-knife  three- 
quarters  open. 

"  I  reckon  she's  a-goin'  to  be  pretty  late  agin  to- 
night, Jim,"  he  remarked  in  a  squeaky  falsetto. 
"S'pose  it's  the  snow?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  responded  the  other  man  with 
a  shade  of  annoyance,  speaking  from  out  an  as- 
tonishing cataract  of  red  beard  that  grew  fiercely 
and  thickly  in  all  directions. 

The  spare  man  shifted  the  quill  toothpick  he 
was  chewing  to  the  other  side  of  his  mouth.  "  It 
ain't  likely  that  anybody  from  the  East  will  come 
with  the  corpse,  I  s'pose,"  he  went  on  reflectively. 

"  I  don't  know,"  responded  the  other,  more 
curtly  than  before. 

"  It's  too  bad  he  didn't  belong  to  some  lodge  or 
other.  I  like  an  order  funeral  myself.  They 
seem  more  appropriate  for  people  of  some  repy- 
tation,"  the  spare  man  continued,  with  an  in- 
gratiating concession  in  his  shrill  voice,  as  he  care- 
fully placed  his  toothpick  in  his  vest  pocket.  He 
always  carried  the  flag  at  the  G.  A.  R.  funerals  in 
the  town. 

The  heavy  man  turned  on  his  heel,  without  re- 
plying, and  walked  up  the  siding.  The  spare  man 
—  249  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

rejoined  the  uneasy  group.  "  Jim's  ez  full  ez  a 
tick,  ez  ushel,"  he  commented  commiseratingly. 

Just  then  a  distant  whistle  sounded,  and  there 
was  a  shuffling  of  feet  on  the  platform.  A  num- 
ber of  lanky  boys,  of  all  ages,  appeared  as  sud- 
denly and  slimily  as  eels  wakened  by  the  crack  of 
thunder;  some  came  from  the  waiting-room,  where 
they  had  been  warming  themselves  by  the  red 
stove,  or  half  asleep  on  the  slat  benches;  others 
uncoiled  themselves  from  baggage  trucks  or  slid 
out  of  express  wagons.  Two  clambered  down 
from  the  driver's  seat  of  a  hearse  that  stood 
backed  up  against  the  siding.  They  straightened 
their  stooping  shoulders  and  lifted  their  heads, 
and  a  flash  of  momentary  animation  kindled  their 
dull  eyes  at  that  cold,  vibrant  scream,  the  world- 
wide call  for  men.  It  stirred  them  like  the  note 
of  a  trumpet;  just  as  it  had  often  stirred  the  man 
who  was  coming  home  tonight,  in  his  boyhood. 

The  night  express  shot,  red  as  a  rocket,  from 
out  the  eastward  marsh  lands  and  wound  along 
the  river  shore  under  the  long  lines  of  shivering 
poplars  that  sentinelled  the  meadows,  the  escap- 
ing steam  hanging  in  grey  masses  against  the 
pale  sky  and  blotting  out  the  Milky  Way.  In  a 
moment  the  red  glare  from  the  headlight  streamed 
up  the  snow-covered  track  before  the  siding  and 
glittered  on  the  wet,  black  rails.  The  burly  man 
with  f.he  dishevelled  red  beard  walked  swiftly  up 
—  250  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


the  platform  toward  the  approaching  train,  un- 
covering his  head  as  he  went.  The  group  of  men 
behind  him  hesitated,  glanced  questioningly  at  one 
another,  and  awkwardly  followed  his  example. 
The  train  stopped,  and  the  crowd  shuffled  up  to 
the  express  car  just  as  the  door  was  thrown  open, 
the  man  in  the  G.  A.  R.  suit  thrusting  his  head 
forward  with  curiosity.  The  express  messenger 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  accompanied  by  a  young 
man  in  a  long  ulster  and  travelling  cap. 

"Are  Mr.  Merrick's  friends  here?"  inquired 
the  young  man. 

The  group  on  the  platform  swayed  uneasily. 
Philip  Phelps,  the  banker,  responded  with  dig- 
nity: "  We  have  come  to  take  charge  of  the 
body.  Mr.  Merrick's  father  is  very  feeble  and 
can't  be  about." 

u  Send  the  agent  out  here,"  growled  the  ex- 
press messenger,  "  and  tell  the  operator  to  lend  a 
hand." 

The  coffin  was  got  out  of  its  rough-box  and 
down  on  the  snowy  platform.  The  townspeople 
drew  back  enough  to  make  room  for  it  and  then 
formed  a  close  semicircle  about  it,  looking  curi- 
ously at  the  palm  leaf  which  lay  across  the  black 
cover.  No  one  said  anything.  The  baggage  man 
stood  by  his  truck,  waiting  to  get  at  the  trunks. 
The  engine  panted  heavily,  and  the  fireman 
dodged  in  and  out  among  the  wheels  with  his  yel- 
—  251  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

low  torch  and  long  oil-can,  snapping  the  spindle 
boxes.  The  young  Bostonian,  one  of  the  dead 
sculptor's  pupils  who  had  come  with  the  body, 
looked  about  him  helplessly.  He  turned  to  the 
banker,  the  only  one  of  that  black,  uneasy,  stoop- 
shouldered  group  who  seemed  enough  of  an  indi- 
vidual to  be  addressed. 

"  None  of  Mr.  Merrick's  brothers  are  here?  " 
he  asked  uncertainly. 

The  man  with  the  red  beard  for  the  first  time 
stepped  up  and  joined  the  others.  "  No,  they  have 
not  come  yet;  the  family  is  scattered.  The  body 
will  be  taken  directly  to  the  house."  He  stooped 
and  took  hold  of  one  of  the  handles  of  the  coffin. 

1  Take  the  long  hill  road  up,  Thompson,  it  will 
be  easier  on  the  horses,"  called  the  liveryman  as 
the  undertaker  snapped  the  door  of  the  hearse 
and  prepared  to  mount  to  the  driver's  seat. 

Laird,  the  red-bearded  lawyer,  turned  again 
to  the  stranger:  "  We  didn't  know  whether 
there  would  be  any  one  with  him  or  not,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  It's  a  long  walk,  so  you'd  better  go  up 
in  the  hack."  He  pointed  to  a  single  battered 
conveyance,  but  the  young  man  replied  stiffly: 
'  Thank  you,  but  I  think  I  will  go  up  with  the 
hearse.  If  you  don't  object,"  turning  to  the  un- 
dertaker, "  I'll  ride  with  you." 

They  clambered  up  over  the  wheels  and  drove 
off  in  the  starlight  up  the  long,  white  hill  toward 
—  252  — 


The  Sculptor9 s  Funeral 


the  town.  The  lamps  in  the  still  village  were 
shining  from  under  the  low,  snow-burdened  roofs; 
and  beyond,  on  every  side,  the  plains  reached  out 
into  emptiness,  peaceful  and  wide  as  the  soft  sky 
itself,  and  wrapped  in  a  tangible,  white  silence. 

When  the  hearse  backed  up  to  a  wooden  side- 
walk before  a  naked,  weather-beaten  frame  house, 
the  same  composite,  ill-defined  group  that  had 
stood  upon  the  station  siding  was  huddled  about 
the  gate.  The  front  yard  was  an  icy  swamp,  and 
a  couple  of  warped  planks,  extending  from  the 
sidewalk  to  the  door,  made  a  sort  of  rickety  foot- 
bridge. The  gate  hung  on  one  hinge,  and  was 
opened  wide  with  difficulty.  Steavens,  the  young 
stranger,  noticed  that  something  black  was  tied 
to  the  knob  of  the  front  door. 

The  grating  sound  made  by  the  casket,  as  it 
was  drawn  from  the  hearse,  was  answered  by  a 
scream  from  the  house;  the  front  door  was 
wrenched  open,  and  a  tall,  corpulent  woman 
rushed  out  bareheaded  into  the  snow  and  flung 
herself  upon  the  coffin,  shrieking:  "  My  boy,  my 
boy !  And  this  is  how  you've  come  home  to  me !  " 

As  Steavens  turned  away  and  closed  his  eyes 
with  a  shudder  of  unutterable  repulsion,  another 
woman,  also  tall,  but  flat  and  angular,  dressed 
entirely  in  black,  darted  out  of  the  house  and 
caught  Mrs.  Merrick  by  the  shoulders,  crying 
sharply:  "  Come,  come,  mother;  you  mustn't  go 
—  253  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

on  like  this !  "  Her  tone  changed  to  one  of  ob- 
sequious solemnity  as  she  turned  to  the  banker: 
"  The  parlour  is  ready,  Mr.  Phelps." 

The  bearers  carried  the  coffin  along  the  nar- 
row boards,  while  the  undertaker  ran  ahead  with 
the  coffin-rests.  They  bore  it  into  a  large,  un- 
heated  room  that  smelled  of  dampness  and  dis- 
use and  furniture  polish,  and  set  it  down  under  a 
hanging  lamp  ornamented  with  jingling  glass 
prisms  and  before  a  "  Rogers  group  "  of  John 
Alden  and  Priscilla,  wreathed  with  smilax. 
Henry  Steavens  stared  about  him  with  the  sicken- 
ing conviction  that  there  had  been  a  mistake,  and 
that  he  had  somehow  arrived  at  the  wrong  des- 
tination. He  looked  at  the  clover-green  Brus- 
sels, the  fat  plush  upholstery,  among  the  hand- 
painted  china  placques  and  panels  and  vases,  for 
some  mark  of  identification, —  for  something  that 
might  once  conceivably  have  belonged  to  Harvey 
Merrick.  It  was  not  until  he  recognized  his 
friend  in  the  crayon  portrait  of  a  little  boy  in  kilts 
and  curls,  hanging  above  the  piano,  that  he  felt 
willing  to  let  any  of  these  people  approach  the 
coffin. 

"  Take  the  lid  off,  Mr.  Thompson;  let  me  see 
my  boy's  face,"  wailed  the  elder  woman  between 
her  sobs.  This  time  Steavens  looked  fearfully, 
almost  beseechingly  into  her  face,  red  and  swollen 
under  its  masses  of  strong,  black,  shiny  hair.  He 
—  254  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


flushed,  dropped  his  eyes,  and  then,  almost  in- 
credulously, looked  again.  There  was  a  kind  of 
power  about  her  face  —  a  kind  of  brutal  hand- 
someness, even;  but  it  was  scarred  and  furrowed 
by  violence,  and  so  coloured  and  coarsened  by 
fiercer  passions  that  grief  seemed  never  to  have 
laid  a  gentle  finger  there.  The  long  nose  was 
distended  and  knobbed  at  the  end,  and  there  were 
deep  lines  on  either  side  of  it;  her  heavy,  black 
brows  almost  met  across  her  forehead,  her  teeth 
were  large  and  square,  and  set  far  apart  —  teeth 
that  could  tear.  She  filled  the  room;  the  men 
were  obliterated,  seemed  tossed  about  like  twigs 
in  an  angry  water,  and  even  Steavens  felt  himself 
being  drawn  into  the  whirlpool. 

The  daughter  —  the  tall,  raw-boned  woman  in 
crepe,  with  a  mourning  comb  in  her  hair  which 
curiously  lengthened  her  long  face  —  sat  stiffly 
upon  the  sofa,  her  hands,  conspicuous  for  their 
large  knuckles,  folded  in  her  lap,  her  mouth  and 
eyes  drawn  down,  solemnly  awaiting  the  opening 
of  the  coffin.  Near  the  door  stood  a  mulatto 
woman,  evidently  a  servant  in  the  house,  with  a 
timid  bearing  and  an  emaciated  face  pitifully  sad 
and  gentle.  She  was  weeping  silently,  the  corner 
of  her  calico  apron  lifted  to  her  eyes,  occasionally 
suppressing  a  long,  quivering  sob.  Steavens 
walked  over  and  stood  beside  her. 

Feeble  steps  were  heard  on  the  stairs,  and  an 
—  255  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

old  man,  tall  and  frail,  odorous  of  pipe  smoke, 
with  shaggy,  unkept  grey  hair  and  a  dingy  beard, 
tobacco  stained  about  the  mouth,  entered  uncer- 
tainly. He  went  slowly  up  to  the  coffin  and  stood 
rolling  a  blue  cotton  handkerchief  between  his 
hands,  seeming  so  pained  and  embarrassed  by  his 
wife's  orgy  of  grief  that  he  had  no  consciousness 
of  anything  else. 

"  There,  there,  Annie,  dear,  don't  take  on  so," 
he  quavered  timidly,  putting  out  a  shaking  hand 
and  awkwardly  patting  her  elbow.  She  turned 
and  sank  upon  his  shoulder  with  such  violence 
that  he  tottered  a  little.  He  did  not  even  glance 
toward  the  coffin,  but  continued  to  look  at  her  with 
a  dull,  frightened,  appealing  expression,  as  a  span- 
iel looks  at  the  whip.  His  sunken  cheeks  slowly 
reddened  and  burned  with  miserable  shame. 
When  his  wife  rushed  from  the  room,  her  daugh- 
ter strode  after  her  with  set  lips.  The  servant 
stole  up  to  the  coffin,  bent  over  it  for  a  moment, 
and  then  slipped  away  to  the  kitchen,  leaving 
Steavens,  the  lawyer,  and  the  father  to  themselves. 
The  old  man  stood  looking  down  at  his  dead  son's 
face.  The  sculptor's  splendid  head  seemed  even 
more  noble  in  its  rigid  stillness  than  in  life.  The 
dark  hair  had  crept  down  upon  the  wide  fore- 
head; the  face  seemed  strangely  long,  but  in  it 
there  was  not  that  repose  we  expect  to  find  in  the 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


faces  of  the  dead.  The  brows  were  so  drawn 
that  there  were  two  deep  lines  above  the  beaked 
nose,  and  the  chin  was  thrust  forward  defiantly. 
It  was  as  though  the  strain  of  life  had  been  so 
sharp  and  bitter  that  death  could  not  at  once 
relax  the  tension  and  smooth  the  countenance  into 
perfect  peace  —  as  though  he  were  still  guarding 
something  precious,  which  might  even  yet  be 
wrested  from  him. 

The  old  man's  lips  were  working  under  his 
stained  beard.  He  turned  to  the  lawyer  with 
timid  deference :  "  Phelps  and  the  rest  are 
comin'  back  to  set  up  with  Harve,  ain't  they?  " 
he  asked.  "  Thank  'ee,  Jim,  thank  'ee."  He 
brushed  the  hair  back  gently  from  his  son's  fore- 
head. "  He  was  a  good  boy,  Jim;  always  a  good 
boy.  He  was  ez  gentle  ez  a  child  and  the  kindest 
of  'em  all  —  only  we  didn't  none  of  us  ever  onder- 
stand  him."  The  tears  trickled  slowly  down  his 
beard  and  dropped  upon  the  sculptor's  coat. 

"  Martin,  Martin!  Oh,  Martin!  come  here," 
his  wife  wailed  from  the  top  of  the  stairs.  The 
old  man  started  timorously:  u  Yes,  Annie,  I'm 
coming."  He  turned  away,  hesitated,  stood  for 
a  moment  in  miserable  indecision;  then  reached 
back  and  patted  the  dead  man's  hair  softly,  and 
stumbled  from  the  room. 

"  Poor  old  man,  I  didn't  think  he  had  any  tears 
—  257  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

left.  Seems  as  if  his  eyes  would  have  gone  dry 
long  ago.  At  his  age  nothing  cuts  very  deep," 
remarked  the  lawyer. 

Something  in  his  tone  made  Steavens  glance 
up.  While  the  mother  had  been  in  the  room,  the 
young  man  had  scarcely  seen  any  one  else;  but 
now,  from  the  moment  he  first  glanced  into  Jim 
Laird's  florid  face  and  blood-shot  eyes,  he  knew 
that  he  had  found  what  he  had  been  heartsick  at 
not  finding  before  —  the  feeling,  the  understand- 
ing, that  must  exist  in  some  one,  even  here. 

The  man  was  red  as  his  beard,  with  features 
swollen  and  blurred  by  dissipation,  and  a  hot, 
blazing  blue  eye.  His  face  was  strained  —  that 
of  a  man  who  is  controlling  himself  with  difficulty 
—  and  he  kept  plucking  at  his  beard  with  a  sort 
of  fierce  resentment.  Steavens,  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow, watched  him  turn  down  the  glaring  lamp, 
still  its  jangling  pendants  with  an  angry  gesture, 
and  then  stand  with  his  hands  locked  behind  him, 
staring  down  into  the  master's  face.  He  could 
not  help  wondering  what  link  there  had  been  be- 
tween the  porcelain  vessel  and  so  sooty  a  lump 
of  potter's  clay. 

From  the  kitchen  an  uproar  was  sounding; 
when  the  dining-room  door  opened,  the  import  of 
it  was  clear.  The  mother  was  abusing  the  maid 
for  having  forgotten  to  make  the  dressing  for  the 
chicken  salad  which  had  been  prepared  for  the 
—  258  — 


The  Sculptor  s  Funeral 


watchers.  Steavens  had  never  heard  anything  in 
the  least  like  it;  it  was  injured,  emotional,  dra- 
matic abuse,  unique  and  masterly  in  its  excru- 
ciating cruelty,  as  violent  and  unrestrained  as  had 
been  her  grief  of  twenty  minutes  before.  With  a 
shudder  of  disgust  the  lawyer  went  into  the  dining- 
room  and  closed  the  door  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Poor  Roxy's  getting  it  now,"  he  remarked 
when  he  came  back.  "  The  Merricks  took  her 
out  of  the  poor-house  years  ago;  and  if  her  loyalty 
would  let  her,  I  guess  the  poor  old  thing  could 
tell  tales  that  would  curdle  your  blood.  She's 
the  mulatto  woman  who  was  standing  in  here  a 
while  ago,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes.  The  old 
woman  is  a  fury;  there  never  was  anybody  like 
her.  She  made  Harvey's  life  a  hell  for  him  when 
he  lived  at  home ;  he  was  so  sick  ashamed  of  it.  I 
never  could  see  how  he  kept  himself  sweet." 

"  He  was  wonderful,"  said  Steavens  slowly, 
"  wonderful;  but  until  tonight  I  have  never  known 
how  wonderful." 

'  That  is  the  eternal  wonder  of  it,  anyway ; 
that  it  can  come  even  from  such  a  dung  heap  as 
this,"  the  lawyer  cried,  with  a  sweeping  gesture 
which  seemed  to  indicate  much  more  than  the 
four  walls  within  which  they  stood. 

"  I  think  I'll  see  whether  I  can  get  a  little  air. 
The  room  is  so  close  I  am  beginning  to  feel 
rather  faint,"  murmured  Steavens,  struggling 
—  259  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

with  one  of  the  windows.  The  sash  was  stuck, 
however,  and  would  not  yield,  so  he  sat  down 
dejectedly  and  began  pulling  at  his  collar.  The 
lawyer  came  over,  loosened  the  sash  with  one 
blow  of  his  red  fist  and  sent  the  window  up  a  few 
inches.  Steavens  thanked  him,  but  the  nausea 
which  had  been  gradually  climbing  into  his 
throat  for  the  last  half  hour  left  him  with  but  one 
desire  —  a  desperate  feeling  that  he  must  get 
away  from  this  place  with  what  was  left  of  Har- 
vey Merrick.  Oh,  he  comprehended  well  enough 
now  the  quiet  bitterness  of  the  smile  that  he  had 
seen  so  often  on  his  master's  lips ! 

Once  when  Merrick  returned  from  a  visit  home, 
he  brought  with  him  a  singularly  feeling  and  sug- 
gestive bas-relief  of  a  thin,  faded  old  woman, 
sitting  and  sewing  something  pinned  to  her  knee; 
while  a  full-lipped,  full-blooded  little  urchin,  his 
trousers  held  up  by  a  single  gallows,  stood  beside 
her,  impatiently  twitching  her  gown  to  call  her 
attention  to  a  butterfly  he  had  caught.  Steavens, 
impressed  by  the  tender  and  delicate  modelling 
of  the  thin,  tired  face,  had  asked  him  if  it  were 
his  mother.  He  remembered  the  dull  flush  that 
had  burned  up  in  the  sculptor's  face. 

The  lawyer  was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair  be- 
side the  coffin,  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  eyes 
closed.  Steavens  looked  at  him  earnestly,  puz- 
zled at  the  line  of  the  chin,  and  wondering  why 
—  260  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


a  man  should  conceal  a  feature  of  such  distinc- 
tion under  that  disfiguring  shock  of  beard.  Sud- 
denly, as  though  he  felt  the  young  sculptor's  keen 
glance,  Jim  Laird  opened  his  eyes. 

'  Was  he  always  a  good  deal  of  an  oyster?  " 
he  asked  abruptly.  "  He  was  terribly  shy  as  a 
boy." 

"  Yes,  he  was  an  oyster,  since  you  put  it  so," 
rejoined  Stevens.  "  Although  he  could  be  very 
fond  of  people,  he  always  gave  one  the  impres- 
sion of  being  detached.  He  disliked  violent  emo- 
tion; he  was  reflective,  and  rather  distrustful  of 
himself  —  except,  of  course,  as  regarded  his 
work.  He  was  sure  enough  there.  He  dis- 
trusted men  pretty  thoroughly  and  women  even 
more,  yet  somehow  without  believing  ill  of  them. 
He  was  determined,  indeed,  to  believe  the  best; 
but  he  seemed  afraid  to  investigate." 

"  A  burnt  dog  dreads  the  fire,"  said  the  lawyer 
grimly,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Steavens  went  on  and  on,  reconstructing  that 
whole  miserable  boyhood.  All  this  raw,  biting 
ugliness  had  been  the  portion  of  the  man  whose 
mind  was  to  become  an  exhaustless  gallery  of 
beautiful  impressions  —  so  sensitive  that  the  mere 
shadow  of  a  poplar  leaf  flickering  against  a  sunny 
wall  would  be  etched  and  held  there  for  ever. 
Surely,  if  ever  a  man  had  the  magic,  word  in  his 
finger  tips,  it  was  Merrick.  Whatever  he 
—  261  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

touched,  he  revealed  its  holiest  secret;  liberated 
it  from  enchantment  and  restored  it  to  its  pris- 
tine loveliness.  Upon  whatever  he  had  come  in 
contact  with,  he  had  left  a  beautiful  record  of  the 
experience  —  a  sort  of  ethereal  signature ;  a  scent, 
a  sound,  a  colour  that  was  his  own. 

Steavens  understood  now  the  real  tragedy  of  his 
master's  life;  neither  love  nor  wine,  as  many  had 
conjectured;  but  a  blow  which  had  fallen  earlier 
and  cut  deeper  than  anything  else  could  have  done 
—  a  shame  not  his,  and  yet  so  unescapably  his,  to 
hide  in  his  heart  from  his  very  boyhood.  And 
without  —  the  frontier  warfare;  the  yearning  of 
a  boy,  cast  ashore  upon  a  desert  of  newness  and 
ugliness  and  sordidness,  for  all  that  is  chastened 
and  old,  and  noble  with  traditions. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  tall,  flat  woman  in  black 
announced  that  the  watchers  were  arriving,  and 
asked  them  to  "  step  into  the  dining-room."  As 
Steavens  rose,  the  lawyer  said  dryly:  "You  go 
on  —  it'll  be  a  good  experience  for  you.  I'm  not 
equal  to  that  crowd  tonight;  I've  had  twenty  years 
of  them." 

As  Steavens  closed  the  door  after  him  he 
glanced  back  at  the  lawyer,  sitting  by  the  coffin 
in  the  dim  light,  with  his  chin  resting  on  his 
hand. 

The  same  misty  group  that  had  stood  before 
the  door  of  the  express  car  shuffled  into  the  dining- 
—  262  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


room.  In  the  light  of  the  kerosene  lamp  they 
separated  and  became  individuals.  The  minister, 
a  pale,  feeble-looking  man  with  white  hair  and 
blond  chin-whiskers,  took  his  seat  beside  a  small 
side  table  and  placed  his  Bible  upon  it.  The 
Grand  Army  man  sat  down  behind  the  stove  and 
tilted  his  chair  back  comfortably  against  the  wall, 
fishing  his  quill  toothpick  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  The  two  bankers,  Phelps  and  Elder,  sat 
off  in  a  corner  behind  the  dinner-table,  where  they 
could  finish  their  discussion  of  the  new  usury  law 
and  its  effect  on  chattel  security  loans.  The  real 
estate  agent,  an  old  man  with  a  smiling,  hypo- 
critical face,  soon  joined  them.  The  coal  and 
lumber  dealer  and  the  cattle  shipper  sat  on  op- 
posite sides  of  the  hard  coal-burner,  their  feet  on 
the  nickel-work.  Steavens  took  a  book  from  his 
pocket  and  began  to  read.  The  talk  around  him 
ranged  through  various  topics  of  local  interest 
while  the  house  was  quieting  down.  When  it  was 
clear  that  the  members  of  the  family  were  in  bed, 
the  Grand  Army  man  hitched  his  shoulders  and, 
untangling  his  long  legs,  caught  his  heels  on  the 
rounds  of  his  chair. 

"  S'pose  there'll  be  a  will,  Phelps?  "  he  queried 
in  his  weak  falsetto. 

The  banker  laughed  disagreeably,  and  began 
trimming  his  nails  with  a  pearl-handled  pocket- 
knife. 

-263- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

4  There'll  scarcely  be  any  need  for  one,  will 
there?"  he  queried  in  his  turn. 

The  restless  Grand  Army  man  shifted  his  posi- 
tion again,  getting  his  knees  still  nearer  his  chin. 
4  Why,  the  ole  man  says  Harve's  done  right  well 
lately,"  he  chirped. 

The  other  banker  spoke  up.  "  I  reckon  he 
means  by  that  Harve  ain't  asked  him  to  mortgage 
any  more  farms  lately,  so  as  he  could  go  on  with 
his  education." 

44  Seems  like  my  mind  don't  reach  back  to  a 
time  when  Harve  wasn't  bein'  edycated,"  tittered 
the  Grand  Army  man. 

There  was  a  general  chuckle.  The  minister 
took  out  his  handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose 
sonorously.  Banker  Phelps  closed  his  knife  with 
a  snap.  '4  It's  too  bad  the  old  man's  sons  didn't 
turn  out  better,"  he  remarked  with  reflective 
authority.  4  They  never  hung  together.  He 
spent  money  enough  on  Harve  to  stock  a  dozen 
cattle-farms,  and  he  might  as  well  have  poured  it 
into  Sand  Creek.  If  Harve  had  stayed  at  home 
and  helped  nurse  what  little  they  had,  and  gone 
into  stock  on  the  old  man's  bottom  farm,  they 
might  all  have  been  well  fixed.  But  the  old  man 
had  to  trust  everything  to  tenants  and  was 
cheated  right  and  left." 

44  Harve  never  could  have  handled  stock  none," 
—  264  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


interposed  the  cattleman.  "  He  hadn't  it  in  him 
to  be  sharp.  Do  you  remember  when  he  bought 
Sander's  mules  for  eight-year  olds,  when  every- 
body in  town  knew  that  Sander's  father-in-law 
give  'em  to  his  wife  for  a  wedding  present  eigh- 
teen' years  before,  an'  they  was  full-grown  mules 
then?" 

The  company  laughed  discreetly,  and  the  Grand 
Army  man  rubbed  his  knees  with  a  spasm  of  child- 
ish delight. 

"  Harve  never  was  much  account  for  any- 
thing practical,  and  he  shore  was  never  fond  of 
work,"  began  the  coal  and  lumber  dealer.  "  I 
mind  the  last  time  he  was  home ;  the  day  he  left, 
when  the  old  man  was  out  to  the  barn  helpin'  his 
hand  hitch  up  to  take  Harve  to  the  train,  and 
Cal  Moots  was  patchin'  up  the  fence;  Harve,  he 
come  out  on  the  step  and  sings  out,  in  his  lady- 
like voice :  '  Cal  Moots,  Cal  Moots  !  please  come 
cord  my  trunk.'  ' 

"  That's  Harve  for  you,"  approved  the  Grand 
Army  man.  "  I  kin  hear  him  howlin'  yet,  when 
he  was  a  big  feller  in  long  pants  and  his  mother 
used  to  whale  him  with  a  rawhide  in  the  barn 
for  lettin'  the  cows  git  foundered  in  the  cornfield 
when  he  was  drivin'  'em  home  from  pasture.  He 
killed  a  cow  of  mine  that-a-way  onct  —  a  pure 
Jersey  and  the  best  milker  I  had,  an'  the  ole  man 
—  265  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

had  to  put  up  for  her.  Harve,  he  was  watchin' 
the  sun  set  acrost  the  marshes  when  the  anamile 
got  away." 

'  Where  the  old  man  made  his  mistake  was  in 
sending  the  boy  East  to  school,"  said  Phelps, 
stroking  his  goatee  and  speaking  in  a  deliberate, 
judicial  tone.  "  There  was  where  he  got  his  head 
full  of  nonsense.  What  Harve  needed,  of  all 
people,  was  a  course  in  some  first-class  Kansas 
City  business  college." 

The  letters  were  swimming  before  Steavens's 
eyes.  Was  it  possible  that  these  men  did  not  un- 
derstand, that  the  palm  on  the  coffin  meant  noth- 
ing to  them?  The  very  name  of  their  town 
would  have  remained  for  ever  buried  in  the  pos- 
tal guide  had  it  not  been  now  and  again  men- 
tioned in  the  world  in  connection  with  Harvey 
Merrick's.  He  remembered  what  his  master  had 
said  to  him  on  the  day  of  his  death,  after  the  con- 
gestion of  both  lungs  had  shut  off  any  probability 
of  recovery,  and  the  sculptor  had  asked  his  pupil 
to  send  his  body  home.  "  It's  not  a  pleasant  place 
to  be  lying  while  the  world  is  moving  and  doing 
and  bettering,"  he  had  said  with  a  feeble  smile, 
"  but  it  rather  seems  as  though  we  ought  to  go 
back  to  the  place  we  came  from,  in  the  end.  The 
townspeople  will  come  in  for  a  look  at  me;  and 
after  they  have  had  their  say,  I  shan't  have  much 
to  fear  from  the  judgment  of  God !  " 
—  266  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


The  cattleman  took  up  the  comment.  "  Forty's 
young  for  a  Merrick  to  cash  in;  they  usually  hang 
on  pretty  well.  Probably  he  helped  it  along  with 
whisky." 

u  His  mother's  people  were  not  long  lived,  and 
Harvey  never  had  a  robust  constitution/'  said 
the  minister  mildly.  He  would  have  liked  to  say 
more.  He  had  been  the  boy's  Sunday-school 
teacher,  and  had  been  fond  of  him;  but  he  felt 
that  he  was  not  in  a  position  to  speak.  His  own 
sons  had  turned  out  badly,  and  it  was  not  a  year 
since  one  of  them  had  made  his  last  trip  home  in 
the  express  car,  shot  in  a  gambling-house  in  the 
Black  Hills. 

"  Nevertheless,  there  is  no  disputin'  that  Harve 
frequently  looked  upon  the  wine  when  it  was  red, 
also  variegated,  and  it  shore  made  an  oncommon 
fool  of  him,"  moralized  the  cattleman. 

Just  then  the  door  leading  into  the  parlour  rat- 
tled loudly  and  every  one  started  involuntarily, 
looking  relieved  when  only  Jim  Laird  came  out. 
The  Grand  Army  man  ducked  his  head  when  he 
saw  the  spark  in  his  blue,  blood-shot  eye.  They 
were  all  afraid  of  Jim;  he  was  a  drunkard,  but  he 
could  twist  the  law  to  suit  his  client's  needs  as  no 
other  man  in  all  western  Kansas  could  do,  and 
there  were  many  who  tried.  The  lawyer  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  leaned  back  against  it  and 
folded  his  arms,  cocking  his  head  a  little  to  one 

-267- 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

side.  When  he  assumed  this  attitude  in  the 
court-room,  ears  were  always  pricked  up,  as  it 
usually  foretold  a  flood  of  withering  sarcasm. 

"  I've  been  with  you  gentlemen  before/'  he  be- 
gan in  a  dry,  even  tone,  "  when  you've  sat  by 
the  coffins  of  boys  born  and  raised  in  this  town; 
and,  if  I  remember  rightly,  you  were  never  any 
too  well  satisfied  when  you  checked  them  up. 
What's  the  matter,  anyhow?  Why  is  it  that  re- 
putable young  men  are  as  scarce  as  millionaires 
in  Sand  City?  It  might  almost  seem  to  a  stranger 
that  there  was  some  way  something  the  matter 
with  your  progressive  town.  Why  did  Ruben 
Sayer,  the  brightest  young  lawyer  you  ever 
turned  out,  after  he  had  come  home  from  the 
university  as  straight  as  a  die,  take  to  drinking 
and  forge  a  check  and  shoot  himself?  Why  did 
Bill  Merrit's  son  die  of  the  shakes  in  a  saloon  in 
Omaha?  Why  was  Mr.  Thomas's  son,  here,  shot 
in  a  gambling-house?  Why  did  young  Adams 
burn  his  mill  to  beat  the  insurance  companies  and 
go  to  the  pen?  " 

The  lawyer  paused  and  unfolded  his  arms,  lay- 
ing one  clenched  fist  quietly  on  the  table.  "  I'll 
tell  you  why.  Because  you  drummed  nothing  but 
money  and  knavery  into  their  ears  from  the  time 
they  wore  knickerbockers;  because  you  carped 
away  at  them  as  you've  been  carping  here  tonight, 
holding  our  friends  Phelps  and  Elder  up  to  them 
—  268  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


for  their  models,  as  our  grandfathers  held  up 
George  Washington  and  John  Adams.  But  the 
boys  were  young,  and  raw  at  the  business  you  put 
them  to,  and  how  could  they  match  coppers  with 
such  artists  as  Phelps  and  Elder?  You  wanted 
them  to  be  successful  rascals;  they  were  only  un- 
successful ones  —  that's  all  the  difference.  There 
was  only  one  boy  ever  raised  in  this  borderland 
between  ruffianism  and  civilization  who  didn't 
come  to  grief,  and  you  hated  Harvey  Merrick 
more  for  winning  out  than  you  hated  all  the  other 
boys  who  got  under  the  wheels.  Lord,  Lord, 
how  you  did  hate  him !  Phelps,  here,  is  fond  of 
saying  that  he  could  buy  and  sell  us  all  out  any 
time  he's  a  mind  to ;  but  he  knew  Harve  wouldn't 
have  given  a  tinker's  damn  for  his  bank  and  all 
his  cattlefarms  put  together;  and  a  lack  of  ap- 
preciation, that  way,  goes  hard  with  Phelps. 

"  Old  Nimrod  thinks  Harve  drank  too  much; 
and  this  from  such  as  Nimrod  and  me ! 

"  Brother  Elder  says  Harve  was  too  free  with 
the  old  man's  money  —  fell  short  in  filial  consid- 
eration, maybe.  Well,  we  can  all  remember  the 
very  tone  in  which  brother  Elder  swore  his  own 
father  was  a  liar,  in  the  county  court;  and  we  all 
know  that  the  old  man  came  out  of  that  partner- 
ship with  his  son  as  bare  as  a  sheared  lamb.  But 
maybe  I'm  getting  personal,  and  I'd  better  be 
driving  ahead  at  what  I  want  to  say." 
—  269  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

The  lawyer  paused  a  moment,  squared  his 
heavy  shoulders,  and  went  on:  "Harvey  Mer- 
rick  and  I  went  to  school  together,  back  East. 
We  were  dead  in  earnest,  and  we  wanted  you  all 
to  be  proud  of  us  some  day.  We  meant  to  be 
great  men.  Even  I,  and  I  haven't  lost  my  sense 
of  humour,  gentlemen,  I  meant  to  be  a  great 
man.  I  came  back  here  to  practise,  and  I  found 
you  didn't  in  the  least  want  me  to  be  a  great 
man.  You  wanted  me  to  be  a  shrewd  lawyer  — 
oh,  yes !  Our  veteran  here  wanted  me  to  get  him 
an  increase  of  pension,  because  he  had  dyspepsia; 
Phelps  wanted  a  new  county  survey  that  would 
put  the  widow  Wilson's  little  bottom  farm  in- 
side his  south  line;  Elder  wanted  to  lend  money 
at  5  per  cent,  a  month,  and  get  it  collected;  and 
Stark  here  wanted  to  wheedle  old  women  up  in 
Vermont  into  investing  their  annuities  in  real- 
estate  mortgages  that  are  not  worth  the  paper 
they  are  written  on.  Oh,  you  needed  me  hard 
enough,  and  you'll  go  on  needing  me ! 

"  Well,  I  came  back  here  and  became  the 
damned  shyster  you  wanted  me  to  be.  You  pre- 
tend to  have  some  sort  of  respect  for  me;  and  yet 
you'll  stand  up  and  throw  mud  at  Harvey  Mer- 
rick,  whose  soul  you  couldn't  dirty  and  whose 
hands  you  couldn't  tie.  Oh,  you're  a  discriminat- 
ing lot  of  Christians!  There  have  been  times 
when  the  sight  of  Harvey's  name  in  some  Eastern 
—  270  — 


The  Sculptor's  Funeral 


paper  has  made  me  hang  my  head  like  a  whipped 
dog;  and,  again,  times  when  I  liked  to  think  of 
him  off  there  in  the  world,  away  from  all  this 
hog-wallow,  climbing  the  big,  clean  up-grade  he'd 
set  for  himself. 

"  And  we  ?  Now  that  we've  fought  and  lied 
and  sweated  and  stolen,  and  hated  as  only  the 
disappointed  strugglers  in  a  bitter,  dead  little 
Western  town  know  how  to  do,  what  have  we  got 
to  show  for  it?  Harvey  Merrick  wouldn't  have 
given  one  sunset  over  your  marshes  for  all  youVe 
got  put  together,  and  you  know  it.  It's  not  for 
me  to  say  why,  in  the  inscrutable  wisdom  of  God, 
a  genius  should  ever  have  been  called  from  this 
place  of  hatred  and  bitter  waters;  but  I  want  this 
Boston  man  to  know  that  the  drivel  he's  been 
hearing  here  tonight  is  the  only  tribute  any  truly 
great  man  could  have  from  such  a  lot  of  sick,  side- 
tracked, burnt-dog,  land-poor  sharks  as  the  here- 
present  financiers  of  Sand  City  —  upon  which 
town  may  God  have  mercy !  " 

The  lawyer  thrust  out  his  hand  to  Steavens  as 
he  passed  him,  caught  up  his  overcoat  in  the  hall, 
and  had  left  the  house  before  the  Grand  Army 
man  had  had  time  to  lift  his  ducked  head  and 
crane  his  long  neck  about  at  his  fellows. 

Next  day  Jim  Laird  was  drunk  and  unable  to 
attend  the  funeral  services.  Steavens  called 
twice  at  his  office,  but  was  compelled  to  start 
—  271  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

East  without  seeing  him.  He  had  a  presentiment 
that  he  would  hear  from  him  again,  and  left  his 
address  on  the  lawyer's  table;  but  if  Laird  found 
it,  he  never  acknowledged  it.  The  thing  in  him 
that  Harvey  Merrick  had  loved  must  have  gone 
under  ground  with  Harvey  Merrick' s  coffin;  for 
it  never  spoke  again,  and  Jim  got  the  cold  he 
died  of  driving  across  the  Colorado  mountains 
to  defend  one  of  Phelps's  sons  who  had  got  into 
trouble  out  there  by  cutting  government  timber. 


—  272  — 


6 A  Death  in  the  Desert' 

EVERETT  HILGARDE  was  conscious  that 
the  man  in  the  seat  across  the  aisle  was 
looking  at  him  intently.     He  was  a  large, 
florid  man,  wore  a  conspicuous  diamond  solitaire 
upon  his  third  finger,  and  Everett  judged  him  to 
be  a  travelling  salesman  of  some  sort.     He  had 
the  air  of  an  adaptable  fellow  who  had  been  about 
the  world  and  who   could  keep  cool  and  clean 
under  almost  any  circumstances. 

The  "  High  Line  Flyer,"  as  this  train  was  de- 
risively called  among  railroad  men,  was  jerking 
along  through  the  hot  afternoon  over  the  mo- 
notonous country  between  Holdredge  and  Chey- 
enne. Besides  the  blond  man  and  himself  the 
only  occupants  of  the  car  were  two  dusty,  be- 
draggled-looking girls  who  had  been  to  the  Ex- 
position at  Chicago,  and  who  were  earnestly  dis- 
cussing the  cost  of  their  first  trip  out  of  Colorado. 
The  four  uncomfortable  passengers  were  covered 
with  a  sediment  of  fine,  yellow  dust  which  clung 
to  their  hair  and  eyebrows  like  gold  powder.  It 
blew  up  in  clouds  from  the  bleak,  lifeless  country 
through  which  they  passed,  until  they  were  one 
—  273  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

colour  with  the  sage-brush  and  sand-hills.  The 
grey  and  yellow  desert  was  varied  only  by  occa- 
sional ruins  of  deserted  towns,  and  the  little  red 
boxes  of  station-houses,  where  the  spindling  trees 
and  sickly  vines  in  the  blue-grass  yards  made  little 
green  reserves  fenced  off  in  that  confusing  wilder- 
ness of  sand. 

As  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  beat  in  stronger 
and  stronger  through  the  car-windows,  the  blond 
gentleman  asked  the  ladies'  permission  to  remove 
his  coat,  and  sat  in  his  lavender  striped  shirt- 
sleeves, with  a  black  silk  handkerchief  tucked 
about  his  collar.  He  had  seemed  interested  in 
Everett  since  they  had  boarded  the  train  at  Hold- 
redge;  kept  glancing  at  him  curiously  and  then 
looking  reflectively  out  of  the  window,  as  though 
he  were  trying  to  recall  something.  But  wher- 
ever Everett  went,  some  one  was  almost  sure  to 
look  at  him  with  that  curious  interest,  and  it  had 
ceased  to  embarrass  or  annoy  him.  Presently  the 
stranger,  seeming  satisfied  with  his  observation, 
leaned  back  in  his  seat,  half  closed  his  eyes,  and 
began  softly  to  whistle  the  Spring  Song  from 
Proserpine,  the  cantata  that  a  dozen  years  be- 
fore had  made  its  young  composer  famous  in  a 
night.  Everett  had  heard  that  air  on  guitars  in 
Old  Mexico,  on  mandolins  at  college  glees,  on  cot- 
tage organs  in  New  England  hamlets,  and  only 
two  weeks  ago  he  had  heard  it  played  on  sleigh- 
—  274  — 


"A  Death  in  the  Desert" 

bells  at  a  variety  theatre  in  Denver.  There  was 
literally  no  way  of  escaping  his  brother's  precoc- 
ity. Adriance  could  live  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic,  where  his  youthful  indiscretions  were 
forgotten  in  his  mature  achievements,  but  his 
brother  had  never  been  able  to  outrun  Proserpine, 
—  and  here  he  found  it  again,  in  the  Colorado 
sand-hills.  Not  that  Everett  was  exactly  ashamed 
of  Proserpine;  only  a  man  of  genius  could  have 
written  it,  but  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  a  man 
of  genius  outgrows  as  soon  as  he  can. 

Everett  unbent  a  trifle,  and  smiled  at  his  neigh- 
bour across  the  aisle.  Immediately  the  large  man 
rose  and  coming  over  dropped  into  the  seat  fac- 
ing Hilgarde,  extending  his  card. 

"  Dusty  ride,  isn't  it?  I  don't  mind  it  myself; 
I'm  used  to  it.  Born  and  bred  in  de  briar  patch, 
like  Br'er  Rabbit.  I've  been  trying  to  place  you 
for  a  long  time ;  I  think  I  must  have  met  you  be- 
fore." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Everett,  taking  the  card; 
"  my  name  is  Hilgarde.  You've  probably  met  my 
brother,  Adriance;  people  often  mistake  me  for 
him." 

The  travelling-man  brought  his  hand  down 
upon  his  knee  with  such  vehemence  that  the  soli- 
taire blazed. 

"  So  I  was  right  after  all,  and  if  you're  not 
Adriance  Hilgarde  you're  his  double.  I  thought 
—  275  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

I  couldn't  be  mistaken.  Seen  him?  Well,  I 
guess !  I  never  missed  one  of  his  recitals  at  the 
Auditorium,  and  he  played  the  piano  score  of 
Proserpine  through  to  us  once  at  the  Chicago 
Press  Club.  I  used  to  be  on  the  Commercial  there 
before  I  began  to  travel  for  the  publishing  de- 
partment of  the  concern.  So  you're  Hilgarde's 
brother,  and  here  I've  run  into  you  at  the  jumping- 
off  place.  Sounds  like  a  newspaper  yarn,  doesn't 
it?" 

The  travelling-man  laughed  and  offering  Ever- 
ett a  cigar  plied  him  with  questions  on  the  only 
subject  that  people  ever  seemed  to  care  to  talk 
to  him  about.  At  length  the  salesman  and  the 
two  girls  alighted  at  a  Colorado  way  station,  and 
Everett  went  on  to  Cheyenne  alone. 

The  train  pulled  into  Cheyenne  at  nine  o'clock, 
late  by  a  matter  of  four  hours  or  so;  but  no  one 
seemed  particularly  concerned  at  its  tardiness  ex- 
cept the  station  agent,  who  grumbled  at  being 
kept  in  the  office  over  time  on  a  summer  night. 
When  Everett  alighted  from  the  train  he  walked 
down  the  platform  and  stopped  at  the  track  cross- 
ing, uncertain  as  to  what  direction  he  should  take 
to  reach  a  hotel.  A  phaeton  stood  near  the  cross- 
ing and  a  woman  held  the  reins.  She  was  dressed 
in  white,  and  her  figure  was  clearly  silhouetted 
against  the  cushions,  though  it  was  too  dark  to 
see  her  face.  Everett  had  scarcely  noticed  her, 
—  276  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


when  the  switch-engine  came  puffing  up  from  the 
opposite  direction,  and  the  head-light  threw  a 
strong  glare  of  light  on  his  face.  The  woman 
in  the  phaeton  uttered  a  low  cry  and  dropped 
the  reins.  Everett  started  forward  and  caught 
the  horse's  head,  but  the  animal  only  lifted  its 
ears  and  whisked  its  tail  in  impatient  surprise. 
The  woman  sat  perfectly  still,  her  head  sunk  be- 
tween her  shoulders  and  her  handkerchief  pressed 
to  her  face.  Another  woman  came  out  of  the 
depot  and  hurried  toward  the  phaeton,  crying, 
"  Katharine,  dear,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

Everett  hesitated  a  moment  in  painful  embar- 
rassment, then  lifted  his  hat  and  passed  on.  He 
was  accustomed  to  sudden  recognitions  in  the  most 
impossible  places,  especially  from  women. 

While  he  was  breakfasting  the  next  morning, 
the  head  waiter  leaned  over  his  chair  to  murmur 
that  there  was  a  gentleman  waiting  to  see  him 
in  the  parlour.  Everett  finished  his  coffee,  and 
went  in  the  direction  indicated,  where  he  found 
his  visitor  restlessly  pacing  the  floor.  His  whole 
manner  betrayed  a  high  degree  of  agitation, 
though  his  physique  was  not  that  of  a  man  whose 
nerves  lie  near  the  surface.  He  was  something 
below  medium  height,  square-shouldered  and 
solidly  built.  His  thick,  closely  cut  hair  was  be- 
ginning to  show  grey  about  the  ears,  and  his 
bronzed  face  was  heavily  lined.  His  square 
—  277  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

brown  hands  were  locked  behind  him,  and  he  held 
his  shoulders  like  a  man  conscious  of  responsibil- 
ities, yet,  as  he  turned  to  greet  Everett,  there 
was  an  incongruous  diffidence  in  his  address. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Hilgarde,"  he  said,  ex- 
tending his  hand;  "  I  found  your  name  on  the 
hotel  register.  My  name  is  Gaylord.  I'm  afraid 
my  sister  startled  you  at  the  station  last  night, 
and  I've  come  around  to  explain." 

uAh!  the  young  lady  in  the  phaeton?  I'm 
sure  I  didn't  know  whether  I  had  anything  to  do 
with  her  alarm  or  not.  If  I  did,  it  is  I  who  owe 
an  apology." 

The  man  coloured  a  little  under  the  dark 
brown  of  his  face. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing  you  could  help,  sir,  I  fully 
understand  that.  You  see,  my  sister  used  to  be  a 
pupil  of  your  brother's,  and  it  seems  you  favour 
him;  when  the  switch-engine  threw  a  light  on 
your  face,  it  startled  her." 

Everett  wheeled  about  in  his  chair.  "  Oh ! 
Katharine  Gaylord !  Is  it  possible  !  Why,  I  used 
to  know  her  when  I  was  a  boy.  What  on 
earth  — " 

"  Is  she  doing  here?"  Gaylord  grimly  filled 
out  the  pause.  "  You've  got  at  the  heart  of  the 
matter.  You  know  my  sister  had  been  in  bad 
health  for  a  long  time?  " 

"  No.  The  last  I  knew  of  her  she  was  singing 
—  278  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


in  London.  My  brother  and  I  correspond  infre- 
quently, and  seldom  get  beyond  family  matters. 
I  am  deeply  sorry  to  hear  this." 

The  lines  in  Charley  Gaylord's  brow  relaxed  a 
little. 

"  What  I'm  trying  to  say,  Mr.  Hilgarde,  is  that 
she  wants  to  see  you.  She's  set  on  it.  We  live 
several  miles  out  of  town,  but  my  rig's  below,  and 
I  can  take  you  out  any  time  you  can  go." 

"  At  once,  then.  I'll  get  my  hat  and  be  with 
you  in  a  moment." 

When  he  came  downstairs  Everett  found  a  cart 
at  the  door,  and  Charley  Gaylord  drew  a  long 
sigh  of  relief  as  he  gathered  up  the  reins  and  set- 
tled back  into  his  own  element. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  tell  you  something  about 
my  sister  before  you  see  her,  and  I  don't  know 
just  where  to  begin.  She  travelled  in  Europe 
with  your  brother  and  his  wife,  and  sang  at  a  lot 
of  his  concerts;  but  I  don't  know  just  how  much 
you  know  about  her." 

u  Very  little,  except  that  my  brother  always 
thought  her  the  most  gifted  of  his  pupils.  When 
I  knew  her  she  was  very  young  and  very  beautiful, 
and  quite  turned  my  head  for  a  while." 

Everett  saw  that  Gaylord's  mind  was  entirely 
taken  up  by  his  grief.  "  That's  the  whole  thing," 
he  went  on,  flecking  his  horses  with  the  whip. 

"  She  was  a  great  woman,  as  you  say,  and  she 
—  279  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

didn't  come  of  a  great  family.  She  had  to  fight 
her  own  way  from  the  first.  She  got  to  Chicago, 
and  then  to  New  York,  and  then  to  Europe,  and 
got  a  taste  for  it  all;  and  now  she's  dying  here  like 
a  rat  in  a  hole,  out  of  her  own  world,  and  she 
can't  fall  back  into  ours.  We've  grown  apart, 
some  way  —  miles  and  miles  apart  —  and  I'm 
afraid  she's  fearfully  unhappy." 

"  It's  a  tragic  story  you're  telling  me,  Gay- 
lord,"  said  Everett.  They  were  well  out  into  the 
country  now,  spinning  along  over  the  dusty  plains 
of  red  grass,  with  the  ragged  blue  outline  of  the 
mountains  before  them. 

"  Tragic !  "  cried  Gaylord,  starting  up  in  his 
seat,  "  my  God,  nobody  will  ever  know  how  tragic ! 
It's  a  tragedy  I  live  with  and  eat  with  and  sleep 
with,  until  I've  lost  my  grip  on  everything.  You 
see  she  had  made  a  good  bit  of  money,  but  she 
spent  it  all  going  to  health  resorts.  It's  her 
lungs.  I've  got  money  enough  to  send  her  any- 
where, but  the  doctors  all  say  it's  no  use.  She 
hasn't  the  ghost  of  a  chance.  It's  just  getting 
through  the  days  now.  I  had  no  notion  she  was 
half  so  bad  before  she  came  to  me.  She  just 
wrote  that  she  was  run  down.  Now  that  she's 
here,  I  think  she'd  be  happier  anywhere  under  the 
sun,  but  she  won't  leave.  She  says  it's  easier  to 
let  go  of  life  here.  There  was  a  time^when  I 
was  a  brakeman  with  a  run  out  of  Bird  City, 
—  280  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


Iowa,  and  she  was  a  little  thing  I  could  carry  on 
my  shoulder,  when  I  could  get  her  everything  on 
earth  she  wanted,  and  she  hadn't  a  wish  my  $80 
a  month  didn't  cover;  and  now,  when  I've  got  a 
little  property  together,  I  can't  buy  her  a  night's 
sleep !  " 

Everett  saw  that,  whatever  Charley  Gaylord's 
present  status  in  the  world  might  be,  he  had 
brought  the  brakeman's  heart  up  the  ladder  with 
him. 

The  reins  slackened  in  Gaylord's  hand  as  they 
drew  up  before  a  showily  painted  house  with  many 
gables  and  a  round  tower.  "  Here  we  are,"  he 
said,  turning  to  Everett,  "  and  I  guess  we  under- 
stand each  other. 

They  were  met  at  the  door  by  a  thin,  colour- 
less woman,  whom  Gaylord  introduced  as  "  My 
sister,  Maggie."  She  asked  her  brother  to  show 
Mr.  Hilgarde  into  the  music-room,  where  Kath- 
arine would  join  him. 

When  Everett  entered  the  music-room  he  gave 
a  little  start  of  surprise,  feeling  that  he  had  step- 
ped from  the  glaring  Wyoming  sunlight  into  some 
New  York  studio  that  he  had  always  known.  He 
looked  incredulously  out  of  the  window  at  the 
grey  plain  that  ended  in  the  great  upheaval  of  the 
Rockies. 

Thejiaunting  air  of  familiarity  perplexed  him. 
Suddenly  his  eye  fell  upon  a  large  photograph  of 
—  281  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

his  brother  above  the  piano.  Then  it  all  became 
clear  enough:  this  was  veritably  his  brother's 
room.  If  it  were  not  an  exact  copy  of  one  of  the 
many  studios  that  Adriance  had  fitted  up  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  world,  wearying  of  them  and 
leaving  almost  before  the  renovator's  varnish  had 
dried,  it  was  at  least  in  the  same  tone.  In  every 
detail  Adriance's  taste  was  so  manifest  that  the 
room  seemed  to  exhale  his  personality. 

Among  the  photographs  on  the  wall  there  was 
one  of  Katharine  Gaylord,  taken  in  the  days 
when  Everett  had  known  her,  and  when  the  flash 
of  her  eye  or  the  flutter  of  her  skirt  was  enough 
to  set  his  boyish  heart  in  a  tumult.  Even  now,  he 
stood  before  the  portrait  with  a  certain  degree  of 
embarrassment.  It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  al- 
ready old  in  her  first  youth,  a  trifle  hard,  and  it 
told  of  what  her  brother  had  called  her  fight. 
The  camaraderie  of  her  frank,  confident  eyes  was 
qualified  by  the  deep  lines  about  her  mouth  and 
the  curve  of  the  lips,  which  was  both  sad  and 
cynical.  Certainly  she  had  more  good-will  than 
confidence  toward  the  world.  The  chief  charm 
of  the  woman,  as  Everett  had  known  her,  lay  in 
her  superb  figure  and  in  her  eyes,  which  possessed 
a  warm,  life-giving  quality  like  the  sunlight;  eyes 
which  glowed  with  a  perpetual  salutat  to  the 
world.  i 

Everett  was  still  standing  before  the  picture,  his 
—  282  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


hands  behind  him  and  his  head  inclined,  when  he 
heard  the  door  open.  A  tall  woman  advanced 
toward  him,  holding  out  her  hand.  As  she 
started  to  speak  she  coughed  slightly,  then,  laugh- 
ing, said,  in  a  low,  rich  voice,  a  trifle  husky: 
"  You  see  I  make  the  traditional  Camille  entrance. 
How  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Hilgarde." 

Everett  was  acutely  conscious  that  while  ad- 
dressing him  she  was  not  looking  at  him  at  all, 
and,  as  he  assured  her  of  his  pleasure  in  coming, 
he  was  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  to  collect  him- 
self. He  had  not  reckoned  upon  the  ravages  of 
a  long  illness.  The  long,  loose  folds  of  her  white 
gown  had  been  especially  designed  to  conceal  the 
sharp  outlines  of  her  body,  but  the  stamp  of  her 
disease  was  there;  simple  and  ugly  and  obtrusive, 
a  pitiless  fact  that  could  not  be  disguised  or 
evaded.  The  splendid  shoulders  were  stooped, 
there  was  a  swaying  unevenness  in  her  gait,  her 
arms  seemed  disproportionately  long,  and  her 
hands  were  transparently  white,  and  cold  to  the 
touch.  The  changes  in  her  face  were  less  obvi- 
ous; the  proud  carriage  of  the  head,  the  warm, 
clear  eyes,  even  the  delicate  flush  of  colour  in  her 
cheeks,  all  defiantly  remained,  though  they  were 
all  in  a  lower  key  —  older,  sadder,  softer. 

She  sat  down  upon  the  divan  and  began  nerv- 
ously to  arrange  the  pillows.  u  Of  course  I'm  ill, 
and  I  look  it,  but  you  must  be  quite  frank  and 
—  283  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

sensible  about  that  and  get  used  to  it  at  once, 
for  we've  no  time  to  lose.  And  if  I'm  a  trifle 
irritable  you  won't  mind?  —  for  I'm  more  than 
usually  nervous." 

"  Don't  bother  with  me  this  morning,  if  you  are 
tired,"  urged  Everett.     "  I  can  come  quite  as  well 


tomorrow." 


"  Gracious,  no!  "  she  protested,  with  a  flash  of 
that  quick,  keen  humour  that  he  remembered  as 
a  part  of  her.  "  It's  solitude  that  I'm  tired  to 
death  of  —  solitude  and  the  wrong  kind  of  people. 
You  see,  the  minister  called  on  me  this  morning. 
He  happened  to  be  riding  by  on  his  bicycle  and 
felt  it  his  duty  to  stop.  The  funniest  feature  of 
his  conversation  is  that  he  is  always  excusing  my 
own  profession  to  me.  But  how  we  are  losing 
time !  Do  tell  me  about  New  York ;  Charley  says 
you're  just  on  from  there.  How  does  it  look  and 
taste  and  smell  just  now?  I  think  a  whiff  of  the 
Jersey  ferry  would  be  as  flagons  of  cod-liver  oil 
to  me.  Are  the  trees  still  green  in  Madison 
Square,  or  have  they  grown  brown  and  dusty? 
Does  the  chaste  Diana  still  keep  her  vows  through 
all  the  exasperating  changes  of  weather?  Who 
has  your  brother's  old  studio  now,  and  what  mis- 
guided aspirants  practise  their  scales  in  the  rook- 
eries about  Carnegie  Hall?  What  do  people  go 
to  see  at  the  theatres,  and  what  do  they  eat  and 
—  284  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


drink  in  the  world  nowadays?  Oh,  let  me  die  in 
Harlem !  "  she  was  interrupted  by  a  violent  at- 
tack of  coughing,  and  Everett,  embarrassed  by 
her  discomfort,  plunged  into  gossip  about  the  pro- 
fessional people  he  had  met  in  town  during  the 
summer,  and  the  musical  outlook  for  the  winter. 
He  was  diagramming  with  his  pencil  some  new 
mechanical  device  to  be  used  at  the  Metropolitan 
in  the  production  of  the  Rheingold,  when  he  be- 
came conscious  that  she  was  looking  at  him  in- 
tently, and  that  he  was  talking  to  the  four  walls. 

Katharine  was  lying  back  among  the  pillows, 
watching  him  through  half-closed  eyes,  as  a 
painter  looks  at  a  picture.  He  finished  his  ex- 
planation vaguely  enough  and  put  the  pencil  back 
in  his  pocket.  As  he  did  so,  she  said,  quietly: 
u  How  wonderfully  like  Adriance  you  are !  " 

He  laughed,  looking  up  at  her  with  a  touch  of 
pride  in  his  eyes  that  made  them  seem  quite  boy- 
ish. "  Yes,  isn't  it  absurd?  It's  almost  as  awk- 
ward as  looking  like  Napoleon  —  But,  after  all, 
there  are  some  advantages.  It  has  made  some 
of  his  friends  like  me,  and  I  hope  it  will  make 
you." 

Katharine  gave  him  a  quick,  meaning  glance 
from  under  her  lashes.  "  Oh,  it  did  that  long 
ago.  What  a  haughty,  reserved  youth  you  were 
then,  and  how  you  used  to  stare  at  people,  and 

—  285  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

then  blush  and  look  cross.  Do  you  remember 
that  night  you  took  me  home  from  a  rehearsal, 
and  scarcely  spoke  a  word  to  me?  " 

"  It  was  the  silence  of  admiration,"  protested 
Everett,  "  very  crude  and  boyish,  but  certainly 
sincere.  Perhaps  you  suspected  something  of  the 
sort?" 

u  I  believe  I  suspected  a  pose;  the  one  that  boys 
often  affect  with  singers.  But  it  rather  surprised 
me  in  you,  for  you  must  have  seen  a  good  deal 
of  your  brother's  pupils."  Everett  shook  his 
head.  "  I  saw  my  brother's  pupils  come  and  go. 
Sometimes  I  was  called  on  to  play  accompani- 
ments, or  to  fill  out  a  vacancy  at  a  rehearsal,  or  to 
order  a  carriage  for  an  infuriated  soprano  who 
had  thrown  up  her  part.  But  they  never  spent 
any  time  on  me,  unless  it  was  to  notice  the  resem- 
blance you  speak  of." 

"  Yes,"  observed  Katharine,  thoughtfully,  "  I 
noticed  it  then,  too ;  but  it  has  grown  as  you  have 
grown  older.  That  is  rather  strange,  when  you 
have  lived  such  different  lives.  It's  not  merely  an 
ordinary  family  likeness  of  features,  you  know, 
but  the  suggestion  of  the  other  man's  personality 
in  your  face  —  like  an  air  transposed  to  another 
key.  But  I'm  not  attempting  to  define  it;  it's  be- 
yond me;  something  altogether  unusual  and  a 
trifle  —  well,  uncanny,"  she  finished,  laughing. 

Everett  sat  looking  out  under  the  red  window- 
—  286  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


blind  which  was  raised  just  a  little.  As  it  swung 
back  and  forth  in  the  wind  it  revealed  the  glaring 
panorama  of  the  desert  —  a  blinding  stretch  of 
yellow,  flat  as  the  sea  in  dead  calm,  splotched  here 
and  there  with  deep  purple  shadows;  and,  beyond, 
the  ragged  blue  outline  of  the  mountains  and  the 
peaks  of  snow,  white  as  the  white  clouds.  "  I  re- 
member, when  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  be  very  sen- 
sitive about  it.  I  don't  think  it  exactly  displeased 
me,  or  that  I  would  have  had  it  otherwise,  but  it 
seemed  like  a  birthmark,  or  something  not  to  be 
lightly  spoken  of.  It  came  into  even  my  relations 
with  my  mother.  Ad  went  abroad  to  study  when 
he  was  very  young,  and  mother  was  all  broken  up 
over  it.  She  did  her  whole  duty  by  each  of  us,  but 
it  was  generally  understood  among  us  that  she'd 
have  made  burnt-offerings  of  us  all  for  him  any 
day.  I  was  a  little  fellow  then,  and  when  she 
sat  alone  on  the  porch  on  summer  evenings,  she 
used  sometimes  to  call  me  to  her  and  turn  my  face 
up  in  the  light  that  streamed  out  through  the 
shutters  and  kiss  me,  and  then  I  always  knew  she 
was  thinking  of  Adriance." 

"  Poor  little  chap,"  said  Katharine,  in  her 
husky  voice.  "  How  fond  people  have  always 
been  of  Adriance!  Tell  me  the  latest  news  of 
him.  I  haven't  heard,  except  through  the  press, 
for  a  year  or  more.  He  was  in  Algiers  then,  in 
the  valley  of  the  Chelif,  riding  horseback,  and  he 
—  287  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  adopt  the  Ma- 
hometan faith  and  become  an  Arab.  How  many 
countries  and  faiths  has  he  adopted,  I  wonder?" 

"  Oh,  that's  Adriance,"  chuckled  Everett. 
"  He  is  himself  barely  long  enough  to  write  checks 
and  be  measured  for  his  clothes.  I  didn't  hear 
from  him  while  he  was  an  Arab;  I  missed  that." 

"  He  was  writing  an  Algerian  suite  for  the 
piano  then;  it  must  be  in  the  publisher's  hands  by 
this  time.  I  have  been  too  ill  to  answer  his 
letter,  and  have  lost  touch  with  him." 

Everett  drew  an  envelope  from  his  pocket. 
"  This  came  a  month  ago.  Read  it  at  your 
leisure." 

"  Thanks.  I  shall  keep  it  as  a  hostage.  Now 
I  want  you  to  play  for  me.  Whatever  you  like ; 
but  if  there  is  anything  new  in  the  world,  in  mercy 
let  me  hear  it." 

He  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  Katharine  sat 
near  him,  absorbed  in  his  remarkable  physical 
likeness  to  his  brother,  and  trying  to  discover  in 
just  what  it  consisted.  He  was  of  a  larger  build 
than  Adriance,  and  much  heavier.  His  face  was 
of  the  same  oval  mould,  but  it  was  grey,  and  dark- 
ened about  the  mouth  by  continual  shaving.  His 
eyes  were  of  the  same  inconstant  April  colour,  but 
they  were  reflective  and  rather  dull;  while  Adri- 
ance's  were  always  points  of  high  light,  and  al- 
ways meaning  another  thing  than  the  thing  they 
—  288  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


meant  yesterday.  It  was  hard  to  see  why  this 
earnest  man  should  so  continually  suggest  that 
lyric,  youthful  face,  as  gay  as  his  was  grave.  For 
Adriance,  though  he  was  ten  years  the  elder,  and 
though  his  hair  was  streaked  with  silver,  had  the 
face  of  a  boy  of  twenty,  so  mobile  that  it  told  his 
thoughts  before  he  could  put  them  into  words.  A 
contralto,  famous  for  the  extravagance  of  her 
vocal  methods  and  of  her  affections,  once  said  that 
the  shepherd-boys  who  sang  in  the  Vale  of  Tempe 
must  certainly  have  looked  like  young  Hilgarde. 

Everett  sat  smoking  on  the  veranda  of  the  In- 
ter-Ocean House  that  night,  the  victim  of  mourn- 
ful recollections.  His  infatuation  for  Katharine 
Gaylord,  visionary  as  it  was,  had  been  the  most 
serious  of  his  boyish  love-affairs.  The  fact  that  it 
was  all  so  done  and  dead  and  far  behind  him,  and 
that  the  woman  had  lived  her  life  out  since  then, 
gave  him  an  oppressive  sense  of  age  and  loss. 

He  remembered  how  bitter  and  morose  he  had 
grown  during  his  stay  at  his  brother's  studio  when 
Katharine  Gaylord  was  working  there,  and  how 
he  had  wounded  Adriance  on  the  night  of  his  last 
concert  in  New  York.  He  had  sat  there  in  the 
box  —  while  his  brother  and  Katherine  were 
called  back  again  and  again,  and  the  flowers  went 
up  over  the  footlights  until  they  were  stacked  half 
as  high  as  the  piano  —  brooding  in  his  sullen  boy's 
—  289  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

heart  upon  the  pride  those  two  felt  in  each  other's 
work  —  spurring  each  other  to  their  best  and 
beautifully  contending  in  song.  The  footlights 
had  seemed  a  hard,  glittering  line  drawn  sharply 
between  their  life  and  his.  He  walked  back  to 
his  hotel  alone,  and  sat  in  his  window  staring  out 
on  Madison  Square  until  long  after  midnight,  re- 
solved to  beat  no  more  at  doors  that  he  could 
never  enter. 

Everett's  week  in  Cheyenne  stretched  to  three, 
and  he  saw  no  prospect  of  release  except  through 
the  thing  he  dreaded.  The  bright,  windy  days  of 
the  Wyoming  autumn  passed  swiftly.  Letters 
and  telegrams  came  urging  him  to  hasten  his  trip 
to  the  coast,  but  he  resolutely  postponed  his  busi- 
ness engagements.  The  mornings  he  spent  on 
one  of  Charley  Gaylord's  ponies,  or  fishing  in  the 
mountains.  In  the  afternoon  he  was  usually  at 
his  post  of  duty.  Destiny,  he  reflected,  seems  to 
have  very  positive  notions  about  the  sort  of  parts 
we  are  fitted  to  play.  The  scene  changes  and  the 
compensation  varies,  but  in  the  end  we  usually  find 
that  we  have  played  the  same  class  of  business 
from  first  to  last.  Everett  had  been  a  stop-gap 
all  his  life.  He  remembered  going  through  a 
looking-glass  labyrinth  when  he  was  a  boy,  and 
trying  gallery  after  gallery,  only  at  every  turn  to 
bump  his  nose  against  his  own  face  —  which,  in- 
—  290  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


deed,  was  not  his  own,  but  his  brother's.  No 
matter  what  his  mission,  east  or  west,  by  land  or 
sea,  he  was  sure  to  find  himself  employed  in  his 
brother's  business,  one  of  the  tributary  lives 
which  helped  to  swell  the  shining  current  of 
Adriance  Hilgarde's.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
that  his  duty  had  been  to  comfort,  as  best  he  could, 
one  of  the  broken  things  his  brother's  imperious 
speed  had  cast  aside  and  forgotten.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  analyse  the  situation  or  to  state  it 
in  exact  terms ;  but  he  accepted  it  as  a  commission 
from  his  brother  to  help  this  woman  to  die.  Day 
by  day  he  felt  her  need  for  him  grow  more  acute 
and  positive;  and  day  by  day  he  felt  that  in  his 
peculiar  relation  to  her,  his  own  individuality 
played  a  smaller  part.  His  power  to  minister 
to  her  comfort  lay  solely  in  his  link  with  his 
brother's  life.  He  knew  that  she  sat  by  him 
always  watching  for  some  trick  of  gesture,  some 
familiar  play  of  expression,  some  illusion  of  light 
and  shadow,  in  which  he  should  seem  wholly 
Adriance.  He  knew  that  she  lived  upon  this,  and 
that  in  the  exhaustion  which  followed  this  tur- 
moil of  her  dying  senses,  she  slept  deep  and 
sweet,  and  dreamed  of  youth  and  art  and  days  in 
a  certain  old  Florentine  garden,  and  not  of  bit- 
terness and  death. 

A  few  days  after  his  first  meeting  with  Kath- 
arine Gaylord,  he  had  cabled  his  brother  to  write 
—  291  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

her.  He  merely  said  that  she  was  mortally  ill; 
he  could  depend  on  Adriance  to  say  the  right  thing 
—  that  was  a  part  of  his  gift.  Adriance  always 
said  not  only  the  right  thing,  but  the  opportune, 
graceful,  exquisite  thing.  He  caught  the  lyric 
essence  of  the  moment,  the  poetic  suggestion  of 
every  situation.  Moreover,  he  usually  did  the 
right  thing, —  except,  when  he  did  very  cruel 
things  —  bent  upon  making  people  happy  when 
their  existence  touched  his,  just  as  he  insisted  that 
his  material  environment  should  be  beautiful; 
lavishing  upon  those  near  him  all  the  warmth  and 
radiance  of  his  rich  nature,  all  the  homage  of  the 
poet  and  troubadour,  and,  when  they  were  no 
longer  near,  forgetting  —  for  that  also  was  a  part 
of  Adriance's  gift. 

Three  weeks  after  Everett  had  sent  his  cable, 
when  he  made  his  daily  call  at  the  gaily  painted 
ranch-house,  he  found  Katharine  laughing  like  a 
girl.  "  Have  you  ever  thought,"  she  said,  as  he 
entered  the  music-room,  "  how  much  these 
seances  of  ours  are  like  Heine's  '  Florentine 
Nights,'  except  that  I  don't  give  you  an  oppor- 
tunity to  monopolize  the  conversation?"  She 
held  his  hand  longer  than  usual  as  she  greeted 
him.  "  You  are  the  kindest  man  living,  the  kind- 
est," she  added,  softly. 

Everett's  grey  face  coloured  faintly  as  he  drew 
his  hand  away,  for  he  felt  that  this  time  she  was 
—  292  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


looking  at  him,  and  not  at  a  whimsical  caricature 
of  his  brother. 

She  drew  a  letter  with  a  foreign  postmark  from 
between  the  leaves  of  a  book  and  held  it  out, 
smiling.  "  You  got  him  to  write  it.  Don't  say 
you  didn't,  for  it  came  direct,  you  see,  and  the  last 
address  I  gave  him  was  a  place  in  Florida.  This 
deed  shall  be  remembered  of  you  when  I  am  with 
the  just  in  Paradise.  But  one  thing  you  did  not 
ask  him  to  do,  for  you  didn't  know  about  it.  He 
has  sent  me  his  latest  work,  the  new  sonata,  and 
you  are  to  play  it  for  me  directly.  But  first  for 
the  letter ;  I  think  you  would  better  read  it  aloud 
to  me." 

Everett  sat  down  in  a  low  chair  facing  the  win- 
dow-seat in  which  she  reclined  with  a  barricade  of 
pillows  behind  her.  He  opened  the  letter,  his 
lashes  half-veiling  his  kind  eyes,  and  saw  to  his 
satisfaction  that  it  was  a  long  one;  wonderfully 
tactful  and  tender,  even  for  Adriance,  who  was 
tender  with  his  valet  and  his  stable-boy,  with  his 
old  gondolier  and  the  beggar-women  who  prayed 
to  the  saints  for  him. 

The  letter  was  from  Granada,  written  in  the 
Alhambra,  as  he  sat  by  the  fountain  of  the  Patio 
di  Lindaraxa.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  warm 
fragrance  of  the  South  and  full  of  the  sound  of 
splashing,  running  water,  as  it  had  been  in  a  cer- 
tain old  garden  in  Florence,  long  ago.  The  sky 

—  293  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

was  one  great  turquoise,  heated  until  it  glowed. 
The  wonderful  Moorish  arches  threw  graceful 
blue  shadows  all  about  him.  He  had  sketched  an 
outline  of  them  on  the  margin  of  his  note-paper. 
The  letter  was  full  of  confidences  about  his  work, 
and  delicate  allusions  to  their  old  happy  days  of 
study  and  comradeship. 

As  Everett  folded  it  he  felt  that  Adriance  had 
divined  the  thing  needed  and  had  risen  to  it  in 
his  own  wonderful  way.  The  letter  was  con- 
sistently egotistical,  and  seemed  to  him  even  a 
trifle  patronizing,  yet  it  was  just  what  she  had 
wanted.  A  strong  realization  of  his  brother's 
charm  and  intensity  and  power  came  over  him;  he 
felt  the  breath  of  that  whirlwind  of  flame  in  which 
Adriance  passed,  consuming  all  in  his  path,  and 
himself  even  more  resolutely  than  he  consumed 
others.  Then  he  looked  down  at  this  white, 
burnt-out  brand  that  lay  before  him. 

"Like  him,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  quietly.  "I 
think  I  can  scarcely  answer  his  letter,  but  when 
you  see  him  next  you  can  do  that  for  me.  I  want 
you  to  tell  him  many  things  for  me,  yet  they  can 
all  be  summed  up  in  this:  I  want  him  to  grow 
wholly  into  his  best  and  greatest  self,  even  at  the 
cost  of  what  is  half  his  charm  to  you  and  me. 
Do  you  understand  me?  " 

"  I  know  perfectly  well  what  you  mean,"  an- 
swered Everett,  thoughtfully.  "  And  yet  it's  dif- 
—  294  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


ficult   to   prescribe    for   those    fellows;    so   little 
makes,  so  little  mars." 

Katharine  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow,  and 
her  face  flushed  with  feverish  earnestness.  "  Ah, 
but  it  is  the  waste  of  himself  that  I  mean;  his 
lashing  himself  out  on  stupid  and  uncomprehend- 
ing people  until  they  take  him  at  their  own  esti- 
mate." 

"  Come,  come,"  expostulated  Everett,  now 
alarmed  at  her  excitement.  "  Where  is  the  new 
sonata  ?  Let  him  speak  for  himself." 

He  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  began  playing 
the  first  movement,  which  was  indeed  the  voice  of 
Adriance,  his  proper  speech.  The  sonata  was  the 
most  ambitious  work  he  had  done  up  to  that  time, 
and  marked  the  transition  from  his  early  lyric 
vein  to  a  deeper  and  nobler  style.  Everett  played 
intelligently  and  with  that  sympathetic  compre- 
hension which  seems  peculiar  to  a  certain  lovable 
class  of  men  who  never  accomplish  anything  in 
particular.  When  he  had  finished  he  turned  to 
Katharine. 

"  How  he  has  grown !  "  she  cried.  "  What  the 
three  last  years  have  done  for  him !  He  used  to 
write  only  the  tragedies  of  passion;  but  this  is  the 
tragedy  of  effort  and  failure,  the  thing  Keats 
called  hell.  This  is  my  tragedy,  as  I  lie  here, 
listening  to  the  feet  of  the  runners  as  they  pass 
me  —  ah,  God !  the  swift  feet  of  the  runners !  " 
—  295  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

She  turned  her  face  away  and  covered  it  with 
her  hands.  Everett  crossed  over  to  her  and  knelt 
beside  her.  In  all  the  days  he  had  known  her  she 
had  never  before,  beyond  an  occasional  ironical 
jest,  given  voice  to  the  bitterness  of  her  own  de- 
feat. Her  courage  had  become  a  point  of  pride 
with  him. 

"  Don't  do  it,"  he  gasped.  "  I  can't  stand  it,  I 
really  can't,  I  feel  it  too  much." 

When  she  turned  her  face  back  to  him  there 
was  a  ghost  of  the  old,  brave,  cynical  smile  on  it, 
more  bitter  than  the  tears  she  could  not  shed. 
"  No,  I  won't;  I  will  save  that  for  the  night,  when 
I  have  no  better  company.  Run  over  that  theme 
at  the  beginning  again,  will  you?  It  was  run- 
ning in  his  head  when  we  were  in  Venice  years  ago, 
and  he  used  to  drum  it  on  his  glass  at  the  dinner- 
table.  He  had  just  begun  to  work  it  out  when 
the  late  autumn  came  on,  and  he  decided  to  go  to 
Florence  for  the  winter.  He  lost  touch  with  his 
idea,  I  suppose,  during  his  illness.  Do  you  re- 
member those  frightful  days?  All  the  people 
who  have  loved  him  are  not  strong  enough  to  save 
him  from  himself!  When  I  got  word  from 
Florence  that  he  had  been  ill,  I  was  singing  at 
Monte  Carlo.  His  wife  was  hurrying  to  him 
from  Paris,  but  I  reached  him  first.  I  arrived  at 
dusk,  in  a  terrific  storm.  They  had  taken  an  old 
palace  there  for  the  winter,  and  I  found  him  in  the 
—  296  — 


"A  Death  in  the  Desert" 

library  —  a  long,  dark  room  full  of  old  Latin 
books  and  heavy  furniture  and  bronzes.  He  was 
sitting  by  a  wood  fire  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
looking,  oh,  so  worn  and  pale !  —  as  he  always 
does  when  he  is  ill,  you  know.  Ah,  it  is  so  good 
that  you  do  know!  Even  his  red  smoking-jacket 
lent  no  colour  to  his  face.  His  first  words  were 
not  to  tell  me  how  ill  he  had  been,  but  that  that 
morning  he  had  been  well  enough  to  put  the  last 
strokes  to  the  score  of  his  '  Souvenirs  d'  Automne' 
and  he  was  as  I  most  like  to  remember  him; 
calm  and  happy,  and  tired  with  that  heavenly 
tiredness  that  comes  after  a  good  work  done  at 
last.  Outside,  the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents, 
and  the  wind  moaned  and  sobbed  in  the  garden 
and  about  the  walls  of  that  desolated  old  palace. 
How  that  night  comes  back  to  me !  There  were 
no  lights  in  the  room,  only  the  wood  fire.  It 
glowed  on  the  black  walls  and  floor  like  the  re- 
flection of  purgatorial  flame.  Beyond  us  it 
scarcely  penetrated  the  gloom  .at  all.  Adriance 
sat  staring  at  the  fire  with  the  weariness  of  all  his 
life  in  his  eyes,  and  of  all  the  other  lives  that 
must  aspire  and  suffer  to  make  up  one  such  life  as 
his.  Somehow  the  wind  with  all  its  world-pain 
had  got  into  the  room,  and  the  cold  rain  was  in 
our  eyes,  and  the  wave  came  up  in  both  of  us  at 
once  —  that  awful  vague,  universal  pain,  that  cold 
fear  of  life  and  death  and  God  and  hope  —  and  we 
—  297  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa^ 

were  like  two  clinging  together  on  a  spar  in  mid- 
o^ean  after  the  shipwreck  of  everything.  Then 
we  heard  the  front  door  open  with  a  great  gust 
of  wind  that  shook  even  the  walls,  and  the 
servants  came  running  with  lights,  announcing  that 
Madame  had  returned,  '  and  in  the  book  we  read 
no  more  that  night!  ' 

She  gave  the  old  line  with  a  certain  bitter 
humour,  and  with  the  hard,  bright  smile  in  which 
of  old  she  had  wrapped  her  weakness  as  in  a  glit- 
tering garment.  That  ironical  smile,  worn 
through  so  many  years,  had  gradually  changed  the 
lines  of  her  face,  and  when  she  looked  in  the  mir- 
ror she  saw  not  herself,  but  the  scathing  critic, 
the  amused  observer  and  satirist  of  herself. 

Everett  dropped  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
M  How  much  you  have  cared !  "  he  said. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  cared,"  she  replied,  closing  her 
eyes.  "  You  can't  imagine  what  a  comfort  it  is 
to  have  you  know  how  I  cared,  what  a  relief  it 
is  to  be  able  to  tell  it  to  some  one." 

Everett  continued  to  look  helplessly  at  the  floor. 
"  I  was  not  sure  how  much  you  wanted  me  to 
know,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I  intended  you  should  know  from  the 

first  time  I  looked  into  your  face,  when  you  came 

that  day  with  Charley.     You  are  so  like  him,  that 

it  is  almost  like  telling  him  himself.     At  least,  I 

—  298  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


feel  now  that  he  will  know  some  day,  and  then  I 
will  be  quite  sacred  from  his  compassion." 

"And  has  he  never  known  at  all?"  asked 
Everett,  in  a  thick  voice. 

"  Oh !  never  at  all  in  the  way  that  you  mean. 
Of  course,  he  is  accustomed  to  looking  into  the 
eyes  of  women  and  finding  love  there;  when  he 
doesn't  find  it  there  he  thinks  he  must  have  been 
guilty  of  some  discourtesy.  He  has  a  genuine 
fondness  for  every  woman  who  is  not  stupid  or 
gloomy,  or  old  or  preternaturally  ugly.  I  shared 
with  the  rest;  shared  the  smiles  and  the  gallantries 
and  the  droll  little  sermons.  It  was  quite  like  a 
Sunday-school  picnic;  we  wore  our  best  clothes 
and  a  smile  and  took  our  turns.  It  was  his  kind- 
ness that  was  hardest." 

"  Don't;  you'll  make  me  hate  him,"  groaned 
Everett. 

Katherine  laughed  and  began  to  play  nervously 
with  her  fan.  "  It  wasn't  in  the  slightest  degree 
his  fault;  that  is  the  most  grotesque  part  of  it. 
Why,  it  had  really  begun  before  I  ever  met  him. 
I  fought  my  way  to  him,  and  I  drank  my  doom 
greedily  enough." 

Everett  rose  and  stood  hesitating.  "  I  think  I 
must  go.  You  ought  to  be  quiet,  and  I  don't 
think  I  can  hear  any  more  just  now." 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  took  his  playfully. 
—  299  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

1  You've  put  in  three  weeks  at  this  sort  of  thing, 
haven't  you?  Well,  it  ought  to  square  accounts 
for  a  much  worse  life  than  yours  will  ever  be." 

He  knelt  beside  her,  saying,  brokenly:  "I 
stayed  because  I  wanted  to  be  with  you,  that's  all. 
I  have  never  cared  about  other  women  since  I 
knew  you  in  New  York  when  I  was  a  lad.  You 
are  a  part  of  my  destiny,  and  I  could  not  leave 
you  if  I  would." 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  shook 
her  head.  "  No,  no;  don't  tell  me  that.  I  have 
seen  enough  tragedy.  It  was  only  a  boy's  fancy, 
and  your  divine  pity  and  my  utter  pitiableness 
have  recalled  it  for  a  moment.  One  does  not 
love  the  dying,  dear  friend.  Now  go,  and  you 
will  come  again  tomorrow,  as  long  as  there  are 
tomorrows."  She  took  his  hand  with  a  smile 
that  was  both  courage  and  despair,  and  full  of  in- 
finite loyalty  and  tenderness,  as  she  said  softly : 

"  For  ever  and  for  ever,  farewell,  Cassius; 
If  we  do  meet  again,  why,  we  shall  smile; 
If  not,  why  then,  this  parting  was  well  made." 

The  courage  in  her  eyes  was  like  the  clear  light 
of  a  star  to  him  as  he  went  out. 

On  the  night  of  Adriance  Hilgarde's  opening 

concert  in  Paris,  Everett  sat  by  the  bed  in  the 

ranch-house  in  Wyoming,  watching  over  the  last 

battle  that  w6s]iave  with  the  flesh  before  we  are 

—  300  — 


"A  Death  in  the  Desert" 

done  with  it  and  free  of  it  for  ever.  At  times  it 
seemed  that  the  serene  soul  of  her  must  have  left 
already  and  found  some  refuge  from  the  storm, 
and  only  the  tenacious  animal  life  were  left  to  do 
battle  with  death.  She  laboured  under  a  delusion 
at  once  pitiful  and  merciful,  thinking  that  she  was 
in  the  Pullman  on  her  way  to  New  York,  going 
back  to  her  life  and  her  work.  When  she  roosed 
from  her  stupor,  it  was  only  to  ask  the  porter  to 
waken  her  half  an  hour  out  of  Jersey  City,  or  to 
remonstrate  about  the  delays  and  the  roughness 
of  the  road.  At  midnight  Everett  and  the  nurse 
were  left  alone  with  her.  Poor  Charley  Gaylord 
had  lain  down  on  a  couch  outside  the  door. 
Everett  sat  looking  at  the  sputtering  night-lamp 
until  it  made  his  eyes  ache.  His  head  dropped 
forward,  and  he  sank  into  heavy,  distressful 
slumber.  He  was  dreaming  of  Adriance's  con- 
cert in  Paris,  and  of  Adriance,  the  troubadour. 
He  heard  the  applause  and  he  saw  the  flowers  go- 
ing up  over  the  footlights  until  they  were  stacked 
half  as  high  as  the  piano,  and  the  petals  fell  and 
scattered,  making  crimson  splotches  on  the  floor. 
Down  this  crimson  pathway  came  Adriance  with 
his  youthful  step,  leading  his  singer  by  the  hand; 
a  dark  woman  this  time,  with  Spanish  eyes. 

The  nurse  touched  him  on  the   shoulder,  he 
started  and  awoke.     She  screened  the  lamp  with 
her    hand.     Everett    saw    that    Katharine    was 
—  301  — 


Youth  and  the  Bright  Medusa 

awake  and  conscious,  and  struggling  a  little.  He 
lifted  her  gently  on  his  arm  and  began  to  fan 
her.  She  looked  into  his  face  with  eyes  that 
seemed  never  to  have  wept  or  doubted.  u  Ah, 
dear  Adriance,  dear,  dear !  "  she  whispered. 

Everett  went  to  call  her  brother,  but  when  they 
came  back  the  madness  of  art  was  over  for 
Katharine. 

Two  days  later  Everett  was  pacing  the  station 
siding,  waiting  for  the  west-bound  train.  Charley 
Gaylord  walked  beside  him,  but  the  two  men  had 
nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  Everett's  bags 
were  piled  on  the  truck,  and  his  step  was  hurried 
and  his  eyes  were  full  of  impatience,  as  he  gazed 
again  and  again  up  the  track,  watching  for  the 
train.  Gaylord's  impatience  was  not  less  than 
his  own;  these  two,  who  had  grown  so  close,  had 
now  become  painful  and  impossible  to  each  other, 
and  longed  for  the  wrench  of  farewell. 

As  the  train  pulled  in,  Everett  wrung  Gaylord's 
hand  among  the  crowd  of  alighting  passengers. 
The  people  of  a  German  opera  company,  en  route 
for  the  coast,  rushed  by  them  in  frantic  haste  to 
snatch  their  breakfast  during  the  stop.  Everett 
heard  an  exclamation,  and  a  stout  woman  rushed 
up  to  him,  glowing  with  joyful  surprise  and  caught 
his  coat-sleeve  with  her  tightly  gloved  hands. 

11 H err  Gott,  Adriance,  lieber  Freund,"  she 
cried. 

—  302  — 


A  Death  in  the  Desert 


Everett  lifted  his  hat,  blushing.  4  Pardon  me, 
madame,  I  see  that  you  have  mistaken  me  for 
Adriance  Hilgarde.  I  am  his  brother."  Turn- 
ing from  the  crestfallen  singer  he  hurried  into  the 
car. 


THE  END 


—  303  — 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


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